He shakes his head. “Not today. It’s Sunday. I’m ignoring my problems for the rest of the night and going with my wife to 3Bs. And if she doesn’t need my help, I’m going to partake in all three of the B’s. I’m getting a double of our single barrel and hiding in a vacant room with a good book.”
Rosalia squeezes his hand and wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh, the Dark Romance room is vacant tonight...”
My brother’s expression shifts from exhausted to interested in record time. “Oh, yeah…”
I shake my head. “Subtle.”
“We never claimed to be,” Sebastian says with a half-smile as they head for the door. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
“Eight a.m.,” I remind him, tapping on the EPA documents. “Don’t be late.”
He nods and they slip out, heads bowed in conversation. Their connection pulls unexpected longing through me. What is it like to have a person who not only has your back, but also your heart?
The quiet of the house settles over me like a weight. Too much has happened today, and now I’m alone with Ivy.
I glance at my jeans and black boots, suddenly restless, needing escape. “Have a good evening,” I tell Ivy, heading for the door.
She rises, following me. “Where are you going?”
“Out.” I push through the library door and head toward my garage.
“No shit,” she snarks. “Anywhere in particular? Does it have to do with the case?”
“Nothing to do with the case.”
She keeps in step with me through the hallway and onto the loggia. A streak of orange fur darts between us, sprinting down the steps, followed by a black cat that nearly trips Ivy. She stumbles forward with a gasp.
I catch her, one hand at her elbow, the other at her waist. We’re close enough that I catch the subtle scent of her shampoo, something with vanilla and spice. Her eyes meet mine, dilating slightly.
“Sorry,” she says, not pulling away. Her hand rests against my chest, and I’m acutely aware of the warmth of her palm through my shirt.
I clear my throat and step back, putting necessary distance between us. “Damn cats. They have no boundaries.”
“I’ve noticed there are a few around here. Why?” she asks, looking around, probably for more cats. Can’t blame her. I do have a lot of them roaming my property.
I shrug, pretending to ignore how my hand still feels warm where it touched her waist. “I fed a couple strays. Then more showed up, so I fed them too.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Keeps away mice,” I mutter, not meeting her eyes, afraid she might see that I also like their company. That I have names for all of them.
I key in the garage code, and when the door clicks open, she asks, “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere in particular.” I step into the garage. “I’m going out on my motorcycle.”
She grabs my elbow, halting me. “You have a bike?”
“Yes.” I point to my Ducati, then my Arch.
“I miss my Triumph.”
I freeze midway to my Arch. “You ride?”
"I did. I had an '85 Bonneville. T140. Bought her used when I was in college, already beat up but she ran like a dream." She sighs and I hear the longing. "Sold her after graduating law school to pay off some bills. Seemed like the reasonable thing to do since I was barely riding anymore. Not exactly practical to commute to a law firm in heels and pencil skirts."
She laughs, but there's genuine regret underneath it. "I still think about that bike sometimes. She was temperamental as hell, leaked oil, needed constant tinkering, but God, I loved her."
And now I’m picturing her ass in a fitted black shirt and a low-cut blouse. I am the asshole people call me. Shaking my head, I take in her linen slacks and white cotton shirt. “Change into jeans and boots. Come with me.” I wave toward the motorcycles. “Which one do you want?”
