"Of course tomorrow." He picks up his whiskey, drains the rest. "Why would you give me any time to prepare?"
"Because you don't need it." I grab my own glass, finish what's left. "You've handled worse than one nine-month-old. This'll be easy."
"You're insane." But there's something almost fond in the way he says it. "Completely insane."
"Probably." I head for the door. "I'll pick you up at nine. Bring coffee."
"I hate you."
"Love you too, brother."
The next morningI show up at Stellan's place at eight-thirty, which gives him exactly zero time to back out. He answers the door looking like he hasn't slept, wearing yesterday's clothes and holding a travel mug that smells strong enough to strip paint.
"You said nine."
"I said be ready at nine. We're leaving at nine." I push past him into the house. "Get your shit together. We've got a baby to meet."
He mutters something that sounds like a string of creative obscenities but heads upstairs to change. When he comes back down he's in dark jeans and a black shirt, hair still damp from a quick shower.
"This is happening." He says it like he's trying to convince himself.
"This is happening."
We take my car—Stellan's too full of empty coffee cups and who knows what else to be presentable. He's quiet during the drive, which is unusual. Normally he'd be running through logistics or asking questions, but instead he just stares out the window like a man heading to his execution.
"You're really nervous." I can't help the amusement in my voice.
"I'm not nervous."
"You've got that look. The one you get before we walk into a meeting you think might go sideways."
"I've tortured people." He turns to glare at me. "I've handled negotiations with families who wanted us dead. I've cleaned up messes that would make normal people vomit. But yeah, meeting a nine-month-old has me sweating. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
"I hate you so much right now."
I'm still grinning when we pull up outside the bookstore. I have a key now, which has my heart soaring as I fish it out. I let us in quietly, climbing the stairs with Stellan following like a man walking to the gallows.
Zola's in the kitchen when we walk in, Maeve on her hip while she attempts to make coffee one-handed. She freezes when she sees us—specifically when she sees Stellan standing behind me looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
"Morning." I cross to her, kiss her temple, take Maeve without asking. "Thought I'd bring someone by to meet this one properly."
"Stellan." Zola sounds surprised but not displeased. "Hi."
"Zola." He nods, staying near the door like he might need to make a quick escape. "It's good to see you."
"You too." She finishes pouring her coffee, turns to actually look at him. "Declan said you wanted to meet Maeve?"
"I..." He glances at me, clearly looking for backup. "Yeah. Figured I should. Since she's family and all."
Maeve chooses that moment to notice we have a guest. She turns in my arms, stares at Stellan with those huge brown eyes, then makes a curious sound.
"This is your Uncle Stellan." I bounce her gently. "He looks scary but he's actually harmless."
"I'm not harmless." But his voice has gone softer, careful. "She's... small."
"Most babies are." Zola's trying not to smile. "Want to hold her?"
