"Shower," Atticus answers. "He should be out in a second."
My mouth waters when we walk through the kitchen, and I know that despite there being very little evidence of it, Atticus was definitely cooking something deadly good in here not long ago. What is that? It smells likebacon.And jalapenos and cheese and…
I swallow and clear my throat, watching Ellie race into the living room.
Atticus rushes to follow her as the sound of crackling hits my ears, and I realize why it's so gloriously warm in here.
My suspicion is confirmed when I enter the living room. There's a crackling fire in the hearth that Ellie is very carefully inspecting under the strict supervision of Atticus.
I rub my arms, sighing. There's something about a fire.
"Nice," Seven says, rushing back downstairs to warm his hands in front of it. He's wearing a crisp white T-shirt that I canfaintly see his tattoos through, and a pair of dark jeans that suit him a million times better than cargos ever could.
"Thought you said it was too early in the year to get it going?" Seven accuses Atticus.
Atticus shrugs. "I made an exception."
A bit of nude and red catches my eye, and I realize there's a new painting hanging in the living room. "Oh, is that it?"
"Thought I heard you," Elijah says, coming down the hall with his dark hair still glistening from the shower, white dress shirt unbuttoned.
Even with all the anticipation still buzzing in my blood for what I have to tell them, I can't help returning Elijah's warm smile as he crosses the room and pulls me into his arms. He smells like soap and warmth, and that slightly nautical musk that is purely Elijah.
"Hey, Angel."
I sigh into his shoulder, and he squeezes me tighter.
"I saw the Modigliani," I say when he pulls away, but keeps an arm wrapped loosely around my waist.
His eyes spark. "Yeah? Come have a closer look."
He starts to pull me toward where they've hung it, but Atticus clears his throat pointedly. "We should debrief."
"She just got here," Seven argues. "Let her chill a sec."
My throat thickens, and I struggle to swallow so I can speak. "No, we should do it now. Get it over with."
Elijah frowns, but his arm falls from my back. "You sure, Angel?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
My skin prickles as I take the armchair, and the others find seats facing me in the living room.
Atticus leans over his knees, steepling his fingers. I can't help noticing the purple marks on his knuckles. How a couple of them have small cuts that are halfway to healing.
"What happened to you?" I ask, unable to help myself. "I thought you didn't run into any trouble in France?"
He looks down at his knuckles as if he'd forgotten all about them. "Worried about me, Trouble?"
"No." I snort. "I'm sure you can handle yourself."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
I swallow. Guess there's nothing else I can say to delay the inevitable.
"How about you start at the beginning?" Atticus prompts. "And try to be thorough. Even little things you think weren't important might be useful."
"He had the restaurant closed for our lunch," I begin. "The driver he sent for me rushed me out when we got there. Said I shouldn't keep him waiting."
