The next time I see her, it’s late morning.
Sunlight warms the kitchen, turning it bright and honest—walnut cabinets, old brass fixtures, a wide farmhouse table that looks like it’s seen decades of breakfasts that didn’t involve blood or anyone’s blood money, for that matter.
I sit at the table, barefoot, hair mussed, a mug of chicory coffee in my hand. A paper bag is spread before me on the table, powdered sugar dusted across it like snow.
Beignets.
I ran out earlier this morning to a café ten miles out to get them. God knows neither one of us can cook.
I sit with my coffee and donuts and revel in the quiet. This is one of my favorite times of the week, the one time I allow myself a treat.
Reva appears in the doorway a minute later, led by Shiloh’s hand at the small of her back. Her hair is still messy. A hoodie hangs off one shoulder. She looks faintly shell-shocked.
She scans the room with unconcealedcuriosity, then the windows, then the hall behind her.
I grunt a ‘morning,’ swallowing around a bite.
Reva’s voice is scratchy. “It’s…late.”
“Welcome to our hours,” Shiloh replies.
She glares at him. Then she looks at me. “You.”
I don’t respond.
Shiloh pulls out a chair and nudges her down into it. “Caught her wanderin’ around lookin’ for an exit.”
“I wasn’t—” Reva snaps, then stops, jaw tight. “This place is huge. It’s pretty damn easy to get lost.”
“Mm,” Shiloh says, like he finds that adorable. “Eat.”
Reva looks at the beignets with suspicion.
“What is this place?” she asks again.
“Our house,” Shiloh says. He places a mug of coffee in front of her and she takes a hesitant sip, eyebrows lifting when the chicory flavor hits. “Blackwood House.”
“Mmm—” She glances toward the windows, toward the yard beyond, dappled with green and moss and sunlight. The glint of the bayou in the distance. With careful fingers, she pinches a beignet and lifts it to her lips. “This is…a freaking plantation.”
“It’s a house,” I say, gaze riveted on the powdered sugarleft on her lips.
Reva barely manages to stop a moan as she chews. “This is…this is…really good. And no…this is like a Scarlett O’Hara freaking plantation house.”
Shiloh laughs. “She ain’t wrong.”
He reaches out, the asshole, and uses his thumb to wipe a bit of powdered sugar from Reva’s lip. She jerks back, licking her lip, then swiping it with her own thumb.
Her gaze returns to me, skeptical. “This just isn’t really your vibe, you know.”
I take a slow sip of coffee. “It’s belonged to Nash’s family for generations.”
“Nash,” Reva repeats, testing the name. “Who’s Nash?”
Shiloh’s grin turns sharp. “Our friend. Partner.”
“Part owner of Noir,” I add.
Her eyes narrow. “So Nash is my boss?”
