“Roman has opinions about your habits,” I say.
He casts one more glance out the window before giving me his full attention. “Roman needs to mind his own busi?—”
Someone pounds on the front door hard enough to rattle the frame, and Valen immediately positions himself between me and the door, his hand once again sliding down his back to the gun he has tucked into his waistband.
But this morning he’s only wearing jeans, no belt. How does the gun stay there? It looks heavy… Would he let me hold it? I lean back to really study his…form. Is he even wearing underwear? I think if his jeans dipped a quarter of an inch I’d see?—
“Relax,” he says, having no idea I was so distracted I forgot to panic. “I recognize that annoying knocking pattern. That’s the Harrington Mayhem Brigade.”
“The what?”
I follow him as he stomps to the front door and unlocks all three of my deadbolts.
Grant, Chase, and Sterling spill into my house like a tornado of expensive cologne and confidence.
“Morning!” Chase is also a cheery golden retriever in the morning. He holds up grocery bags and turns up the wattage on his grin. “We brought reinforcements.” One of the bags spills open. “Well, mostly. Pothole took a bite out of this one.”
“It’s seven in the morning,” Valen says flatly.
“Is it?” Sterling checks his watch with exaggerated surprise. “Huh. So it is.”
“We’re going to teach you to make Mom’s biscuits,” Grant adds, heading straight for my kitchen. “Chief says you’ve been setting off fire alarms multiple times a day.”
“I can cook,” Valen protests. “I just…don’t always do it well.”
He looks at me for help, but I shrug. We’re not at the point in our relationship where I’ll lie for him. My cheeks heat because I know that’s the lie here.
“And you.” Chase points at me while unpacking the ingredients onto my counter. “You subsist on tea, coffee, chocolate, and whatever hasn’t expired in your fridge. Chief ratted you out.”
He winks, and I can’t help my smile even though I’m pretty sure he just insulted me.
“They do this,” Valen explains. “Show up. Take over. Reorganize your life whether you want them to or not.”
“It’s our love language,” Sterling says, pulling out measuring cups I didn’t know I owned. “Now, Clover. Have you ever made biscuits from scratch?”
“No?” I’m not sure where to even look.
“Perfect. Today, you’ll both learn.” Grant ties an apron around his waist—an actual apron he must’ve brought with him that says Kiss the Cook—and transforms himself into some kind of Southern grandma. “Valen used to know, so this will hopefully just be a refresher for him. It’s our mom’s secret recipe.”
“I don’t?—”
“You burned toast, Valen,” Chase says. “Multiple times. Then you set Clover’s microwave on fire.”
“You did what?” I gasp, running to the microwave and opening it but not seeing any signs of damage.
“Chief has a big mouth,” Valen mutters. “I replaced it while you were writing. Walmart is a fucking nightmare at lunchtime, by the way.”
“Chief cares about proper nutrition,” Grant corrects. He’s so…stiff. It’s funny to see him this way. “Now, wash your hands. Both of you. We’re making memories.”
What follows is possibly the most chaotic hour of my adult life.
“You have to cut the butter into pea-sized pieces,” Sterling reads from an index card.
“Not like that.” Grant mutters under his breath as if he’s Gordon Ramsay.
Chase steals a medieval-looking tool that Grant was using to “cut butter” into his flour, which somehow results in Sterling chasing Chase around the island.
And Valen?—
