Finn beams. “He missed me.”
I slide off the stool.
“Hi,” I say, trying for casual and failing.
“Hi.”
The lights hit his arm again as he reaches for a glass of water.
There it is.
Dark panel. Fractures. Gold threaded through.
“That’s new,” I say, stepping closer.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Finn leans over the bar, acting as a gossip columnist. “Oh yeah, it is. Is that where you’ve been all day?”
Zane shoots him a look. “Yeah, I needed a change.”
I gently catch his wrist before he can roll his sleeve down.
The contact is electric. I push the fabric back.
A couple at the bar glance over, curious. The music swells slightly as the chorus of some indie song hits, but it feels like we’re in our own little pocket of space inside the noise.
“It’s beautiful,” I say quietly.
His jaw shifts. “It’s nothing.”
Before I can respond, before I can ask the question forming at the edge of my tongue, the front door bursts open.
Sloane strides in behind them, leading a parade, five months pregnant and fully unstoppable, with a group of very striking men behind her.
Wait?
Men I recognize…
“Wild Revierie?”
Sloane beams like she personally manifested Coachella into Coyote Glen. “Oh yeah, I didn’t tell you, did I? These are my men…”
My brain short-circuits.
“Your… sorry, men?”
Roman grins immediately. “We prefer ‘multifaceted emotional support system.’”
Creed rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”
Ezra gives me a small nod and a warm smile.
Sloane rests a hand over her very visible five-month bump and shrugs like she’s introducing coworkers instead of internationally known musicians she also happens to be romantically involved with.
“Roman,” she says, pointing. “Ego, guitar, madness.”
“Charisma,” Roman corrects.
