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Jace leans in again to whisper in her ear, and whatever he says makes her eyes go wide before she pushes up from the chair and disappears toward the lounge. Then our pup straightens, peering through the glass at us as he drags two wet fingers slowly across his bottom lip before licking them clean.

“Looks like the brats want to play,” Elias murmurs against my ear as we watch Jace trail behind Sloane.

I straighten my tie. “He knows better than to top from the bottom.”

Elias steps back, something like amusement in his exhale. “Knowing better has never once slowed him down.”

True enough.

Fourteen years of perfectly reasonable expectations, and the man treats every single one of them as a personal suggestion the moment the chaos takes over.

Which is, unfortunately, most of the time. And if I’m being honest with myself, he’s the only beautiful, unpredictable variable I’ve ever allowed in my system.

I look toward the lounge door Sloane disappeared through. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Interest sharpens in his expression. “Bench or stockade?”

“Bench.” It lands in the air between us the way decisions do when they’ve already been made. “The pup’s overdue for a lesson in patience.”

He gives me one long, knowing look, then turns for the door. I’m just about to follow when my computer pings. I glance down; one new message sits at the top of my inbox.

From: Lane Capital & Development

Subject: Confidential: Strategic Investment & Partnership Inquiry — SOLAÉ

My hand stills on the mouse.

Lane Capital & Development.

Preston Lane’s family company.

I read the subject line twice, a different kind of pleasure settling in before I can stop it. And here I was, thinking how difficult it would be to dismantle Preston without touching Sloane in the process.

Funny how the universe has decided to simplify matters.

twenty-eight

Room at the Table

Trey’s idea of an intervention is apparently brunch.

Not coffee. Not a quiet phone call. Brunch.

Which is how I end up tucked into a corner table at one of the Castro’s busiest little queer brunch spots on Saturday morning, staring at a plate of shrimp and grits I’ve barely touched while Trey watches me over the rim of a mimosa like he’s building a case.

Beside him sits Marcel Reeves.

Mars, according to Trey.

Restaurant owner. Quiet. Broad-shouldered. Permanently composed in a way that makes Trey look even more dramatic by comparison.

They’ve been seeing each other for a few months, though Trey still insists on calling him his “little friend,” which would be more convincing if Mars hadn’t just reached over without looking and moved Trey’s coffee away from the edge of the table before he could knock it over.

“She’s been weird all morning,” Trey announces.

I stare at him. “I’ve been here four minutes.”

“Exactly. Usually you’ve insulted me twice by now.”