There’s something in his tone—disappointment, maybe—and I get it. We’re all family.
“Because she doesn’t want to move in with me,” I admit, lips twitching.
For a second, silence.
Then bursts of laughter.
All except Harvey.
“So what—” Nathan manages between laughs, “you’re just going to force her?”
I roll my eyes. “No. If she really didn’t want to, I wouldn’t. But she likes to fight with me.” I smirk. “And you, big guy.” I nod toward Harvey. “Would’ve taken her side.”
That earns a deep grunt from Harvey, but there’s a hint of amusement in it.
Nathan pushes up from the chair, snatching my phone and laptop off the desk.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
He grins. “Not missing this for the world.”
“Nathan—”
Too late. He’s already halfway to the door. “Come on, Lang. Let’s go get your wife.”
I shake my head, laughing as I grab my jacket.
Coleman claps me on the shoulder when we reach the parking garage. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Harvey stops beside his truck, arms crossed, expression hard but eyes soft. “Don’t hurt her.”
I meet his gaze. “I might not let her tell me no,” I say quietly, “but I’d never hurt her.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods once. “I know.”
When I slide behind the wheel, my pulse is already pounding.
Because I know exactly what’s waiting for me at that apartment—chaos, laughter, maybe a few sharp words.
Nathan is still laughing when we get to her building.
“You realize,” he says, “this woman’s going to eat you alive, right?”
“Probably,” I mutter, grabbing the takeout bag I brought for Mrs. D as a peace offering. “But she’ll do it from my house.”
When we reach her apartment door laughter is drifting out of it. I push it open and stop dead in the doorway.
Papers. Everywhere. Still.
Her entire living room looks like a brainstorming bomb went off. The couch is covered in sticky notes, the coffee table’s drowning in half-scribbled plans, and Sabrina—barefoot, hair piled up in a messy knot, wearing an oversized sweatshirt—is sitting cross-legged in the middle of it all with Mrs. D and that damn dog.
Nathan whistles low beside me. “Looks productive.”
Mrs. D’s head pops up. The second her eyes land on him, she grins like a cat spotting cream. “Well, hello there.”
Nathan chuckles. “Ma’am.”
“Oh, don’t ma’am me, young man. You can call me Mrs. D—or anytime you need a home-cooked meal, just call me.”
