“You smell like coffee and Slim Jims,” I mumble into his shoulder.
His deep chuckle rumbles through him and into me. My eyes sink shut and I hold on tighter despite my earlier demand to put me down.
“You smell like dust and old books.”
“Historical preservationist doesn’t mean mildewed card catalogs and stale tombs.”
The rumble turns into a laugh—that big, warm Roman laugh that makes everything feel a little less catastrophic.
When he finally sets me down, my toes barely meet the floor before Caleb swoops in.
“Shutterbug!” Caleb shoves Roman aside with zero grace and yanks me into his own hug, rocking me side to side while he squeezes with his signature overeager energy. “Did you miss me? Tell me you missed me. Roman said you probably didn't miss me, but he's a liar and I'm the favorite.”
“You're nobody's favorite,” Roman and Nolan say in unison.
“Bullies. The both of them. Sierra, defend my honor.”
“You have no honor to defend,” Everett mutters, just sliding right into that honorary fourth brother spot they’d given him when I was seven.
“Wow. Okay. I see how it is.” Caleb releases me just to clutch his chest like they’ve mortally wounded him. “I’m telling Dad. At least he cares about my feelings.”
“Not this week,” Nolan says from behind us. “He’s on his honeymoon. I’m pretty sure there’s only one feeling he cares about.”
Caleb winces and clenches his teeth. “Nope. I didn’t hear that. I didn’t picture it either. Christ.”
Nolan’s eyes find mine—striking, dark-rimmed hazel, streaked with green and copper—that don’t miss a thing.
“Hey.” His smooth voice cuts through the chaos. Quieter than the other two. Steadier.
He doesn't barrel into me like Roman or tackle me like Caleb. He just opens his arms and waits.
That's Nolan. Patient. Watchful.
“You okay?” he murmurs against my hair. “You look... flushed.”
ABORT. ABORT. ABORT.
“Long day.” I pull back with what I hope is a casual smile. “Twelve hours in the archives. You know how it is.”
He doesn't look convinced.
Nolan never looks convinced. But he doesn’t push.
Roman settles onto a barstool, the suspicion in his gaze wiped clean as he takes a long pull of bourbon, and sets the glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Damn, that's good.”
“Should be. It’s top shelf.” Everett grips the neck of the bottle giving the label and appreciative once over. “Aged longer than Caleb’s attention span,”
“Asshole.” Caleb covers the word with a cough, grabs his glass without hesitation. “Valid, though.”
The hand wrapped around that heavy glass was under my sweater. That hand in particular, cupped my breast like it had every right to be there.
The thought slices through every comfort their presence brings.
All it took was hot hands with no boundaries, a demanding thigh ready to ride, lethal lips fused to mine and I was two seconds away from climbing him like the mountain of a man he is front of God and the snowman display and?—
Suddenly there's a glass in my hand. I stare down at it knowing I sure as hell didn’t pick it up.
When I glance up, Everett gestures to the glass with a flick of his gaze before aiming his attention at my brothers like this is any other reunion. Like we weren't just pressed against each other in the window seat. Like his tongue wasn't in my mouth thirty seconds before they walked in.
