Dorothy clears her throat. “Focus, Eliot.”
My role is to play the keyboard in the corner and keep the atmosphere “cheerfully tense”. Which, in practice, means trying not to break into theJeopardy!theme during dramatic pauses.
“Begin!” Dorothy shouts, slamming the tiny kitchen timer like a buzzer.
The room erupts into furious pencil-scratching and low mutters. The absolutely no talking rule is the first one to go as Earl confesses he doesn’t know the rules.
“It’s numbers one through nine without repeats, Earl. Did you not read the instructional pamphlet?” Delilah murmurs.
“I have a tendency to recycle all pamphlets on sight.”
Two tables over, Ann-Sabrina is scribbling furiously. “Steve, you have seven here three times already, look,” Dorothy says over his shoulder.
“That’s my practice row,” Steve claims.
Harold, meanwhile, is staring at his puzzle like it insulted him, muttering something about numbers and Founding Fathers.
Michael and Becky’s table looks like a war zone. Or an intense espionage drill. I half expect one of them to start speaking in code. Or resorting to shivvies, as was Earl’s fear.
By round three, Eliot is musing how Sudoku is an illusion of order, and Mr. Benson is hummingSon of a Preacher Manwhile folding his grid into an elaborate origami.
Earl’s breathing into a paper bag and commenting on its nice, sugary smell, whereas Steve has declared himself the “backward winner.”
The final match comes down to Mrs. Kirkland and Henry.
Dorothy narrates in a whisper, like it’s a chess championship. “Mrs. Kirkland fills the final box… but wait…”
That’s when the door opens, letting in a rush of air. Jørgen, towering and broad, is carrying both Noah and Sammy.
“I found these rascals in my house,” he rumbles, and Noah giggles loudly. Sammy’s laughter is more subdued but just as delighted.Jørgen grins, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat.
Across the room, Henry’s pencil hesitates for half a second. His gaze flicks up and locks on Jørgen. Long enough to be obvious. Long enough to matter. Then he jerks it back to the grid. But that pause was enough. Mrs. Kirkland rings her bell with triumph. Henry blinks, caught off guard, then composes himself instantly. “Congratulations,” he says, smiling, and very studiously does not glance at Jørgen again.
XADEN
Keller’s voice is still in my head: “If you break cover, you end the op.” Meaning: no justice for my dad.
I pace around the backroom, coiled tighter than I’ve been in weeks. This whole summer’s a mindfuck, and I’m sick of it. It’s not like Keller has to watch JJ and Ronnie circle Cole like hyenas. He’s not the one standing there, pretending he doesn’t care while they drop hints. Just enough for me to know they’re sniffing closer.
My fists ache for an outlet. JJ’s jaw. Ronnie’s smirk. But I can’t. I can’t blow my cover, not when I’m this close. And the truth? Violence was never my answer. My fake rap sheet screams biker brawls and resisting arrest, but the only fights I’ve thrown myself into were prison cover work.
Still — mess with the man I love, and you might as well call me Bryan Mills.
I drag both hands down my face.
I know exactly how this’ll go: I’ll try to warn Cole, and he’ll spit fire. Cut me with his words the way he did on his porch. In front of Baywood Beans. At the festival.
And I’ll take it. God knows I deserve it. Better he hates me than gets caught in thismess. But I can already see it: his eyes blazing like I’m the last person he wants near him.
I’ll have to swallow down the truth all over again.
That I never stopped loving him. Not for a second. Not for a breath.
COLE
Once a week, Caspian takes me grocery shopping. He knows I hate doing it alone. Baywood Market isn’t even that big but it still manages to overwhelm me — the aisles, the lights, the constant noise, and the demand for small talk whenever I see someone I know. Which is always.
We’ve just returned and are unloading bags from Caspian’s car when I see Xaden. He’s striding toward my house like a storm, shoulders tight, stubble dark along his jaw. He looks different. More dangerous. More exhausted, too, which makes me want to take care of him. God, my mind is as treacherous as my body.
