“So Marissa has hips that could cause religious conversion.”
“Good for Marissa.”
Nate leaned back.
His grin faded.
That was worse.
Nate joking meant I could ignore him. Nate serious meant the bastard had sharpened something.
“It’s her,” he said.
I took a drink of coffee.
“Brother.”
I set the mug down too carefully. “Don’t.”
“She’s two hours away now.”
“No, she’s not.”
“She’s in Malibu.”
“That’s more than two.”
“Not on your bike.”
I looked at him.
He smiled faintly. “See? You know the math.”
I pushed back from the table and walked away before I did something stupid, like answer honestly.
Callum noticed next.
Presidents always noticed eventually. A good prez knew the difference between a man working through something and a man turning into a liability. Callum had patched me. Took me in. Saw me when I was nothing but rage, bad habits, and hunger wearing boots.
So when he called me into church one afternoon and shut the door behind me, I knew I was in trouble.
He sat at the head of the table, boots planted, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Nate was there too, leaning against the wall like he had been invited as witness and entertainment.
“Sit,” Callum said.
I sat.
Nothing good ever came after that tone.
Callum watched me for a second. “You’ve been different.”
“No, I haven’t.”
Nate laughed. “Great start. Very believable.”
I ignored him.
Callum didn’t. He just kept staring.
