“Shut up.”
Her men, Mitchell, Timothy, and Freddie, appear behind her as summoned bodyguards.
Mitch crosses his arms, big, tattooed, intimidating in a “please kneel for me” kind of way, and looks down at me, deciding whether or not to flick me into the sun.
“Morning.”
Always the dominant one. Always laser-focused on Ivy first, everyone else second.
Freddie grins wider, sunglasses sliding down his nose. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Coyote Glen’s favorite anarchy generator.”
“I accept this title with great humility,” I say, hand over my heart.
Timothy chuckles. “Sometimes I wonder how you’re still alive with that mad brain of yours.”
I shrug. “It’s a combination of luck, charm, and Caleb keeping me away from power tools.”
“That tracks,” Mitch mutters.
Ivy sighs dramatically. “Thank goodness you’re here. These three are driving me insane. Freddie keeps offering to tattoo the baby when it’s born.”
Freddie holds up his hands defensively. “A temporary tattoo.”
“It was still on a newborn in the design sketch,” Ivy snaps.
“It was tasteful,” Freddie insists.
Timothy groans. “It was a flaming skull with a rattle in its mouth, you idiot.”
Mitchell places a massive, broad palm on Ivy’s back, cool without even trying. “We’re not tattooing the baby.”
“Exactly,” Ivy laughs, poking him lightly in the chest. “See? Mitchell gets me.”
Freddie leans close to me and whispers, “He doesn’t get her—he obeys her. There’s a difference.”
Ivy smacks him upside the head without looking.
“Ow!”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” she snaps.
“You scare me,” Freddie mutters.
“Good.”
Before I can interject, Pickle sees me and immediately tries to scale my leg.
“I missed you too, demon,” I tell him, scooping him up.
He licks my face with the enthusiasm of a creature with no sense of boundaries or personal space. Ivy looks delighted.
“Delaney’s working with you today,” Ivy declares casually, tilting her head toward the cluster of tables near the coffee tent. “Interesting.”
I set Pickle down and follow her gaze.
Delaney stands laughing with Savannah, lemonade in hand, sunlight catching her hair like it’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. She looks comfortable. Open. I’ve noticed her getting a lot more settled.
Something warm and traitorous flips in my stomach. I pretend it doesn’t.
