“And to think, I’d almost forgotten how high-handed you are.” I brush past him, walking deeper into the kitchen. “You know I’d never host this meeting at my actual house, right?”
Lola and Beckett offer curt nods as they follow me into the kitchen. Bishop gives them nothing in return. No smile. No greeting. Just a faint lift of his chin, like acknowledging their existence is a courtesy.
Lola huffs. “So where’s the rest of your minions?”
Bishop’s jaw ticks. “You said three.”
Lola gestures around the empty living room. “And yet, you’re here thirty minutes early.”
He shrugs, a slow, controlled lift of his shoulders. “I’ve been here for nearly an hour.”
My eyebrows rise. Oh Bishop. I can’t decide if that makes him paranoid or predictable.
I lean against the kitchen island, palms flat on the cool quartz, tilting my head as I study him. “Did you think I was planning to ambush you?”
He doesn’t move—doesn’t even blink. He just gives the faintest, driest lift of his left brow.
“I think,” he says finally, “that you’re capable of a lot more than people give you credit for.”
It’s not meant to be a compliment, but it lands like one anyway.
My smile sharpens. “Good. I’d hate to disappoint.”
The front door opens before he can reply.
Cruz strolls in first, baseball cap backward, sun-streaked hair escaping at the edges, a lazy grin already in place. He does a slow, appreciative spin. “Well, damn, Bells.” He whistles. “Not bad digs.”
Lola gives him a saccharine smile. “Oh sweet summer child, you think we’d actually let you know where we live?”
Cruz laughs like she just complimented him. “Fair.”
Gage appears next, broad shoulders filling the doorway like he owns the place. And Rafe slips in behind him, silent, eyes cataloging everything with a kind of awareness that makes my stomach dip.
All four of them in one room feels like stepping into a storm.
But I hold my ground.
Gage’s gaze catches mine, warm and wicked in equal measure. “Hey, Bells.”
I press my lips together, focusing on the cool quartz beneath my palms. His gaze burns across my skin, and I find myself straightening my shoulders, as if my body is trying to rise to meet his attention. A flutter kicks against my ribs—once, twice—and I have to force myself to inhale slowly through my nose. Business. This is just business.
Bishop pushes off the wall with a sharp exhale. “All right. We’re here.” His tone is clipped, all business. “Let’s get this over with.”
Every head turns to Gage.
Lola’s brows jump. “Gage? Damn, did you graduate to head Calloway?”
Rafe snorts softly, arms folded, one shoulder propped against the doorway. He’s watching me, and he’s not subtle about it either.
Gage rubs the back of his neck, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face.
Lola’s expression hardens. “Hold on. Before we go any further, let’s be clear: We didn’t agree to shit. Our cut goes from one-third to one-seventh if we work with you?—”
“One-eighth,” Rafe interrupts.
Lola snaps her gaze to him. “What?”
He shrugs, casual but exact. “One-third to one-eighth. We cut Coco in.”
