Twelve minutes later — I counted — three motorcycles pull up outside. The engines cut one by one, and through the window I watch them swing off their bikes like they choreographed it. Vaughn first, all broad shoulders and a jaw that could open letters. Silas next, quiet and huge, already scanning the truck like he's calculating load distribution. Ezra last, stretching his arms overhead and yawning like he was napping five minutes ago, which he probably was.
"Robin." Vaughn's already assessing the truck with that thing he does — eyes moving in a grid pattern, cataloging, organizing. Same way he looks at an engine before he takes it apart. "How much of this is actually necessary?"
"All of it is necessary. My stand mixer alone is worth your monthly salary."
"Doubtful," Ezra says, but he's already grabbing boxes. "Which ones are fragile?"
"The ones marked fragile."
"They're all marked fragile."
"Then be careful with all of them."
Silas just starts lifting, two boxes at a time, muscles doing absolutely obscene things under his t-shirt. I take a moment to appreciate the view because I'm alive and I have eyes and also I'm a slut for competent men doing physical labor. Sue me.
"You going to help or just stare?" Vaughn asks.
"I'm supervising. Very important job." I hold up the pitcher I'd stashed in the fridge. "Also, I made lemonade."
"Of course you did."
Ash's house is only ten minutes away. There's a vegetable garden in the back that Jason started, tomato cages leaning optimistically toward the sun. A welcome mat that says LEAVE that Ash thinks is hilarious. The porch has two chairs now — there used to be one, and then Jason showed up and suddenly everything in Ash's life came in pairs. I love it for them both.
It takes us three trips to move everything. The lions work with brutal efficiency, communicating in half-sentences and head nods, a system built from years of working the garagetogether. Vaughn coordinates without raising his voice. Points, nods, shifts his chin toward a room, and the other two just know. Silas takes the heavy stuff — my books, my cast iron, the truly irresponsible amount of ceramic bakeware I own — and moves through the house like he memorized the floor plan on the first trip. Ezra handles the awkward shapes, the lamp with the wobbly base and the garment bag full of chef's jackets and the framed photo of me at culinary school graduation that he holds up with a grin and says, "Cute hat."
"It's called a toque and it cost two hundred dollars and I looked amazing in it."
"You look twelve."
"I was twenty-one and gorgeous, thank you very much."
I have to actively resist the urge to disrupt their rhythm just to see them flustered.
"Kitchen boxes in the kitchen," Vaughn directs, because apparently he's assigned himself foreman. "Bedroom stuff upstairs. Anything unmarked goes in the living room until Robin sorts it."
"Bossy," I observe, leaning against the truck. "I like it."
He gives me a look that should be illegal. "Where does this go?" He's holding a box I definitely should have labeled.
"That's my bedroom box. Very delicate. Full of extremely personal items."
Ezra picks it up, shakes it. "Sounds like books."
"Very personal books."
"Porn?" Silas asks, so deadpan I genuinely can't tell if he's joking.
"Romance novels, actually. Same thing but with better plots."
Vaughn makes a choking sound. His ears go red. I file that away for later — Vaughn's ears are an absolute tell, and I am a card counter by nature.
In the kitchen, I pour lemonade with strawberries I sliced this morning and fresh mint from the plant Toby gave me as a moving present. The lions drink gratefully, lined up against Ash's kitchen counter like the world's most dangerous juice commercial.
"This is good," Silas says, sounding surprised.
"I'm a pastry chef. Beverages are well within my skill set." I lean against the opposite counter, aware that my shirt rides up when I do. Not performing. Just... aware. "It's the fresh mint that makes it."
"You put mint in lemonade?" Ezra sounds genuinely interested.
