Page 78 of Love You To Pieces

“I feel like I really don’t want to pet you, girl,” I admit, trying to dodge her tongue and pat her ears instead. She’s not having it, however, and sure enough my arm ends up bathed in saliva that leaves very faint red streaks on my skin.

“Harrison just as stupid as usual?” Fox asks from where he’s sitting on the couch, his legs thrown out languidly in front of him as he thumbs through a magazine retrieved from the mail. He eyes Deacon over the top of the pages, though he certainly doesn’t look concerned.

Deacon gives him a wolfish grin. “Don’t worry,” he drawls. “I didn’t kill him.” He slicks a hand through his hair, and I can see bloodstains that have stiffened in his curls.

God, he shouldn’t be hot like this. Especially bloody. But for some reason, it’s doing it for me in a lot of ways.

“I don’t really care either way. Harrison isn’t exactly a productive member of society.” Fox watches with disapproval as Deacon scrubs his hands on his shirt, though it does nothing at all to budge the blood staining his skin. “Do you have to do that in the living room? Can’t you go shower first?”

“Depends on how many times you fucked Sadie while I was gone,” Deacon replies airily.

I can feel my face go red, and I sit up on my end of the sofa, flustered and suddenly very aware of what my hands are doing. “What?” I ask, my voice climbing an octave. “How do you—Why would⁠—”

Deacon laughs, cutting me off. “Please, darling. Let’s be honest. Fucking people into feeling better is what he does. It’s worked with me many, many times. I figured it would work for you too. Besides.” He levels a look at Fox, head tilted coyly. “You were jealous of the bonding time she and I had last night, weren’t you?”

Fox chuckles, but he doesn’t deny it. “Can you go fucking shower?” he asks at last. “I’m hungry, and it’s basically dinner time. Ms. Hewitt brought over her casseroles this morning. We’ve been oh so kindly waiting for you.”

It isn’t until Deacon has disappeared up the stairs that it clicks, and I look at Fox with wide eyes. “Harrison,” I repeat, feeling stupid. “You mean J. Harrison? The guy from the Post-it note? You know who that is?”

Fox doesn’t answer immediately. He sets the magazine down, his fingers smoothing over the slick cover. “Yeah,” he sighs finally. “We know him. I’ve arrested him a few times, though he’s gotten better at flying under my radar.” His tone tells me he’s not happy about that, and he turns to face me. “Deacon went to have a chat with him. If he’s buying from the Hills, chances are he knows where they’ve been livin’ lately.”

“Oh,” I murmur. “I didn’t know…I didn’t even think…” I hadn’t considered what Deacon was doing, but now that I know, I glance up at the ceiling, like I can will him to move faster in the shower. “Did he find out?”

“Don’t know.” Fox sounds fully relaxed as he says it, like the answer doesn’t matter to him very much. “Though judging by that shit-eating grin he was wearing when he came in, I’d say he figured out some interesting facts for us. Let him shower,” he adds, when he sees the way I’m already half on my feet. “I’m not dealing with him getting dried blood all over the place. It’s a bitch to clean.” His nose wrinkles, and I look at him, surprised that he’d care about that sort of thing.

Though, now that I think about it, the house is cleaner than my home has ever been. There’s never been a speck of visible dirt or dust, and even with their do-it-yourself approach to preparing food, I’ve never seen a sign of it in the house.

I’d never really thought about it before, honestly.

It takes Deacon almost thirty minutes to shower, proving to me that he really is the more vain brother between the two. When he reappears in well-fitted jeans and a snug tee, he smells of a cologne similar to Fox’s, though with sharper undertones that fit his personality better.

He smiles when he sees me, breezing over to me in the dining room where I’m setting the table at Fox’s direction. “Proud of you for waiting on me so patiently,” he teases, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “I’m not dumb. I’m sure it was killing you not to know, huh?”

“Hmm?” I bat my eyes at him, trying to look innocent. “Me? Never. Why, I’m as patient as a summer storm.”

He stops, narrows his eyes, and tilts his head to look at me with one brow cocked. “And what the hell does that mean?”

“No idea,” I admit with a shrug. “Just sort of made it up on the spot.”

“God, you take forever. You always take forever.” Fox isn’t really complaining, judging by his grin and the way he leans in to kiss Deacon’s temple.

“You like it,” Deacon retorts as he eases down into his chair. Fox sets the two casserole dishes on the table, and I follow him to the kitchen to accept the basket of bread and one glass of tea. He’s quick to follow with the other two, and it isn’t long before we’ve gotten dinner on the table, ready to eat.

“So does Ms. Hewitt always deliver enough food for a squad of mercenaries?” I ask as Fox sticks big spoons in both dishes. Even between the three of us, there has to be enough here to last for days.

“Yeah,” Deacon assures me. “It’s sort of her thing. In her opinion, there’s nothing food can’t fix.”

I can’t really say I disagree. Especially when I take a bite of the baked macaroni and nearly pass away from enjoyment right there. I swear I enter a state of euphoria, one that’s echoed again when I bite into the chicken casserole. “This is so good,” I groan. “How does she cook this well? Wait—” I open my eyes to look at both of them. “This is chicken, right? Not the other white meat?”

“Would it bother you if it was? You’ve already had some ingredients from the other meat.” Deacon watches me as he speaks, and takes a pointed, taunting bite of casserole.

But thankfully, Fox takes pity on me. He elbows his brother with a roll of his eyes and assures me, “Nah, it’s not. Just chicken. She raises her own, and has a real cute garden that she grows ingredients in. She’s very self-sufficient.”

“Especially since she was probably around for the rise and fall of the Roman empire,” Deacon agrees, echoing my own thought of how old Ms. Hewitt seems to be, judging by the air about her and her eyes. Fox levels a glare at him, but he only gives him a too-sweet smile and stuffs a bite of macaroni in his mouth. “You love me,” he reminds the sheriff.

“Unfortunately,” Fox agrees. “But anyway, could you spill? Sadie’s ready to burst from anticipation. And I’d like her to be able to enjoy her dinner.”

“I’m not ready to⁠—”