“Uh-huh.” Bronx grabbed a beer from the fridge, popping the cap with a practiced flick. “And what else did Enya do?”
If the floor could open up and swallow her whole, right now, she’d be eternally grateful. She risked a glance at Rowan, whose expression had shifted from murderous to something far more dangerous—resigned. He scrubbed a hand over his face and glared at them all.
“Alright, fuck it,” he muttered. “We were kissing. Happy?”
“Finally,” Gael groaned, throwing his hands up. “I was starting to think I’d have to stage an intervention. Y’all been dancing around this since she got here.”
Calloway clapped Rowan on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “About damn time, Boss. Man’s gotta have some hobbies outside of brooding and shooting things.”
Rowan shot him a look that could’ve flayed skin. “You’re real funny, asshole.”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that.” Dawsyn grabbed a stack of plates from the cabinet and started setting the table. “We’re just fucking with you. Ain’t that right, boys?”
A chorus of agreement rose, along with a few poorly stifled snickers. Enya’s mortification was slowly giving way to something lighter, something dangerously close to belonging. These men—this team—they were a unit, a family, and right now, they were folding her into it without a second thought.
Rowan exhaled, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He turned to Enya, his voice dropping to something rougher, just for her. “You good?”
She nodded, biting her lip to hide a smile. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Good.” He cleared his throat, then raised his voice. “Alright, dumbfucks, sit the fuck down before I decide to make this a working dinner and pull out some maps and shit.”
That got them moving. Chairs scraped against the floor, silverware clinked, and in less than a minute, the table was set. Enya grabbed a pair of oven mitts and pulled the meatloaf from the oven, the rich, savory scent making her stomach growl. She set it on a trivet in the center of the table, then followed it withthe bowl of mashed potatoes, the greens, and a basket of rolls she’d warmed in the oven.
Rowan pulled out the chair at the head of the table and gestured for her to sit. She hesitated, but the look in his eyes brooked no argument. So she slid into the seat, her pulse still humming from the kiss, from the way his team had just… accepted this, accepted her.
The men filed in, taking their places with the easy camaraderie of brothers. Gael sat to her left, Calloway to her right, the others filling in the gaps. Rowan took the seat at the opposite end, his gaze never leaving hers.
For a second, no one moved. Then Gael reached for the meatloaf knife, his grin unrepentant. “Alright, Sweets. Let’s see what you got.”
Plates were passed, food was served, and the table erupted into the kind of chaos that only came from a group of men who’d spent too much time in each other’s pockets. There was teasing, there were jokes, and there was an entire debate over whether or not Scout had actually seen a UFO during their last op in Nevada (he had not). Enya found herself drawn in, laughing at their antics, rolling her eyes at their nonsense, and when Rowan’s foot brushed against hers under the table, she smiled so hard her cheeks ached.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The quilt was too damnhot, but Rowan refused to kick it off. If he kicked it off, or even if he moved, he’d have to admit he was awake, that he’d been awake for hours. The glow of his watch showed it was just after one AM. He should’ve been asleep or at least resting up for the op, but his brain was a traitor, and kept replaying the sounds Enya made when he kissed her, and the taste of her mouth. His body was wired from it, his skin too tight, his pulse thrumming like a live wire. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm.
Go to sleep, damn it.
In a couple of hours, he would lead his team down the war-trail that was the Afghanistan border with Pakistan. Tonight was possibly the only sleep, aside from a catnap on a CIA helo once they’d rescued Mikey Wilson from a cartel hellhole, that he was likely to get for at least forty-eight hours. Sleep, resting his eyes, recharging the batteries, shut-eye, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it, should be his number one priority, yet here he was counting imaginary spots on his freaking ceiling.
“Fuck this shit.”
He tossed back the covers and got out of bed. If he couldn’t sleep, then there were so many better things he could be doing, stuff that would help their mission. Mercier’s call had been too smooth, too rehearsed, or some shit, and it set his teeth on edge. The fucker was hiding something, and maybe he could figure out what it was before they were knee-deep in a firefight with no exit strategy.
He pulled on a pair of jeans and left the bedroom, but just as he was about to turn the corner and head toward the war-room, the soft glow of light from the kitchen stopped him in his tracks. The scent of something warm and sweet lingered in the air, and the ding of the microwave enticed him to look and see if he was Gael or Enya, who also couldn’t sleep. He paused in the doorway and leaned against the frame, watching Enya.
“Nuh-uh, Poppy, you can’t be up here.” Enya squirted some whipped cream from the can into a saucer, picked up the cat, and put her and the cream on the floor. “If Rowe sees you up here, you’ll be a barn cat by dawn for sure.”
Meow.
Rowan cleared his throat and bit back a snicker when both Enya and the cat whirled around to look at him. “She should be in the barn.”
“Lies.” Enya quickly washed her hands and pulled a mug down from the cupboard. “You wouldn’t like to be turfed out of your home and shipped off to the barn, would you?” She kept her back to him as he went to sit at the table. “Scratch that. Knowing you, living in the barn wouldn’t bother you in the slightest.”
“You got that right, Darlin’. Whatcha doing?”
“Making a mug cake?”
“A what now?” he went to look over her shoulder. The mug was half-full of thick, chocolatey batter. She added another spoonful of sugar, then milk, and stirred it with the fork.
