"You're hovering." Xander didn't look up from the canapés. "Go sit down somewhere. You're making the caterers nervous."
"I'm not hovering."
"You've straightened that napkin stack three times." They finally met my eyes, and there was something in their expression that wasn't quite hostile. Exasperation, maybe, the kind reservedfor difficult relatives rather than enemies. "This is Dad's retirement party. You don't work here anymore."
I didn't know what to do with that. I was still in my transition period at Lucky Losers, still training my replacement, still attending meetings and reviewing contracts. But that was ending too. A few short weeks, and I would be nothing but a consultant. Available for questions. Unnecessary for operations.
Six months ago, I would have manufactured new ways to be essential, identified vulnerabilities only I could address. Instead, something in my chest loosened like a held breath finally released.
"The crostini are burning," I said.
Xander swore and yanked open the oven. Smoke billowed. They rescued the tray with a dish towel, dumping charred bread onto the counter. "Don't say it."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were going to offer to help."
"I was going to offer to help," I admitted.
Xander laughed, and I blinked at the unexpected warmth in it. "Go find Dad. Make sure he's not spending too much time on his bad leg. That's the only job you have tonight."
I went.
The house had transformed. Flowers I hadn't ordered filled vases I'd never seen. A banner stretched across the living room, hand-painted in uneven strokes: HAPPY RETIREMENT, DAD. Xander's work. The lettering had their dramatic flair, each letter a different color.
Algerone stood near the fireplace, speaking with Harrison Webber from the Pentagon. His suit was charcoal gray, impeccably fitted. I'd adjusted the shoulders myself last week, taking in a quarter inch on each side. He'd lost weight since Macau.
The belt at his waist was cordovan leather, hand-stitched, the edges burnished to a warm glow. I'd made that belt. I knew intimately how that leather felt across my ass: exquisite.
Algerone caught me looking and smirked.
Webb said something about contracts. Algerone responded appropriately, but his eyes stayed on me. The message was clear.Later.
I found a corner near the bookshelves where I could watch without interfering. The caterers would handle the food. Xander would manage the guests. Xavier would give the toast.
I took a sip of wine and forced myself to do nothing.
Xion appeared beside me, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the crowd. Boone trailed behind him.
"Nice party," Xion said.
"Your brother's doing."
"Xander likes organizing things. Gets it from—" He stopped, leaving the comparison unfinished.
"The lights look good," I offered. "In the backyard."
"Boone did most of it." Xion glanced at his partner. "I just held the ladder."
We stood in silence that was neither comfortable nor hostile. A year ago, Xion wouldn't have stood next to me at all.
"Xavier showed me your workshop," he said abruptly.
I blinked. "What?"
"When I was here last week. He gave me a tour." Xion's jaw worked. "You've got a nice setup. The leather tools. The stitching pony."
"You know stitching ponies?"
