“I know that too.” I push myself up to sitting, wincing at the twinge in my lower back. I’m getting too old for floor wrestling. “But if you change your mind about doing something stupid, call me first. I’m excellent at stupid decisions.”
That gets me a real smile, small but genuine. “I’ve noticed.”
I stand, offering him a hand up. He takes it, and for a moment we just look at each other—two men shaped by the same losses, the same town, the same fierce loyalty that neither of us talks about but both of us feel.
“Thanks,” he says simply. “For coming.”
“Always.”
The moment stretches, bordering on sentimental, until I clear my throat and step back. Too much honesty makes my skin itch.
“I should head home,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Early shift tomorrow.”
Judah nods, starting to gather the whiskey and glasses. “I’ll walk you out.”
We’ve barely made it to the door when it flies open, revealing Mabie with her phone clutched in one hand and an expression of pure disbelief on her face.
“Were you two fighting?” she demands, eyes narrowing as she takes in our rumpled clothes and the red mark on Judah’s neck where my arm had been. “Seriously? What are you, twelve?”
“Just working out some tension,” I say, winking at her. “Your brother needed reminding who’s boss.”
“In your dreams, Romano.” Judah elbows me, but there’s no heat in it.
Mabie rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “Whatever. You might want to hold off on leaving, Dom.”
“Why’s that?”
Her mouth curves into a smile that’s pure mischief. “Because you will never believe who just knocked on the door if you don’t see it for yourself.”
EIGHTEEN
PHOENIX
The doorof Judah’s literal mansion swings open before Mason can knock, revealing a young woman who looks like she just rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to care about it.
She’s got Judah’s eyes—that same impossible ocean blue—but where his are weathered and guarded, hers sparkles with barely contained energy. Dark hair pulled into a messy bun, flannel pajama pants that have seen better days, and an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame. She can’t be more than twenty-one, twenty-two at most.
Her gaze slides over Mason, dismisses Atticus entirely, and lands on me with the force of a spotlight.
“Holy shit.” The words escape her in a rush. “You’re actually here. In my house. Phoenix Riviera is standing on my porch.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Not the artificial warmth from the pills churning through my system, but genuine embarrassment at her obvious excitement. I’ve dealt with fans for years—screaming teenagers at premieres, middle-aged women who remember my kids’ show, creepy men who’ve watched my bikini scenes on repeat—but there’s something different about thisgirl’s reaction. Like I’ve personally made her entire year just by existing in her vicinity.
“Hi,” I manage, trying for my camera-ready smile despite the fact that my skin feels like it’s been set to simmer. “You must be…”
“Mabie. Maybelline, technically, but only my mother calls me that when she’s pissed.” She’s practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “God, I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve been watching you since I was like, twelve.Ally’s Worldwas literally my entire personality in middle school.”
Ally’s World.The show that made me famous and ruined my life in equal measure. The show I can’t escape no matter how many serious roles I take, how many times I try to rebrand myself as an adult actress. I’ll be eighty years old and people will still remember me as the perky teenager who solved mysteries with her talking cat.
But Mabie’s enthusiasm is so pure, so uncomplicated by industry bullshit, that I can’t find it in myself to be bitter about it.
“That’s really sweet,” I say, and mean it. “Thank you.”
“Oh my God, wait till I tell my friends. They’re going to lose their minds.” She pulls out her phone, then seems to remember we’re still standing on the porch. “Shit, sorry. Come in, come in. My brother will be down in just a minute.”
She steps aside, still babbling, and we file into the foyer.
The Daniels house is old money trying not to look like old money. Everything is quality—hardwood floors that gleam despite their age, oriental rugs that probably cost more than my car, oil paintings of stern-looking ancestors watching from gilded frames—but it’s all slightly worn at the edges. Comfortable. Lived in. Like a cashmere sweater that’s been washed too many times but is too beloved to throw away.
