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“I made my special lemonade,” she said, grinning. “My bridge club swears by it.”

“ You play bridge?” Lucas teased.

“I do. And I knit.” She winked at Miranda. “You should see the horror on his face.”

Miranda laughed, delighted by Lucas’s discomfort.

Trudy handed out glasses, and Lucas took a big gulp—then sputtered, coughing violently. “Jesus, Mom!”

“I added vodka,” Trudy said innocently. “The good kind. The bird one. Goose-something.”

“Grey Goose,” Miranda supplied, lifting her glass with amusement. “It’s perfect, Trudy. Exactly what I needed.”

“At least someone appreciates my hospitality.” Trudy side-eyed her son as she settled into a chair. “So, Miranda, how’s the team? Is my son doing right by the Knights?”

Miranda crossed her legs, clasped her hands over her knee. “It was rough at first. But we’re finding our rhythm.”

“Good. You let me know if he steps out of line. I didn’t raise him to act like a fool.”

Lucas groaned softly, but Trudy wasn’t done. “Since he’s here, I figured he could fire up the grill. Miranda, you and I can handle the sides in the kitchen.”

Miranda stood instantly. “Happy to help, Trudy.”

Trudy beamed, looping her arm through Miranda’s. “Come on, honey. Let’s leave Lucas to his fire and meat.”

Lucas fell into step behind her, his presence a warm, steady weight at her back. She didn’t need to look to know he was watching her—she could feel it, the weight of his gaze like fingertips trailing down her spine.

At the doorway to the kitchen, she cast a glance over her shoulder, letting her smile tilt into something wicked and knowing. A silent promise. Payback was coming—for that kiss, for the smirk, for the way he thought he could rattle her and walk away untouched.

Let him stew in it for a while.

If he thought she was in trouble, he was about to find out just how wrong he was.

M iranda stood at the kitchen window, watching Lucas at the grill like it was his own personal battleground.

The late sun cast golden light over the deck, catching the definition of his arms as he flipped steaks with casual precision.

He’d taken off his dress shirt and was left in a t-shirt, and the faint sheen of sweat on his forearms gleamed like something designed to short-circuit rational thought.

He was infuriating. And hot. And entirely too aware of both.

Inside, Trudy moved like a well-rehearsed symphony conductor, orchestrating dinner with quiet authority. The potatoes were already roasting, the dressing mixed. She’d handed Miranda a cucumber and a peeler with the kind of smile that said, You’re not getting out of this conversation, sweetheart .

And just like a seasoned interrogator—warm voice, sharp eyes, zero escape—Trudy had been chipping away at her for the last twenty minutes.

Three times now, Miranda had dodged the same question asked in various ways: What’s really going on between you and my son?

On the fourth attempt, Trudy relented, eyeing her with a knowing tilt of her head. “You’ve had a long day, dear. Take your drink and sit on the deck. You look like you could use a little peace.”

Miranda didn’t argue. The weight of the day—airports, rental cars, meetings, coaches, strategy—settled over her shoulders like a wet towel. She scooped up her vodka lemonade and a few serving dishes, nodding her thanks as she made her escape.

Lucas must’ve been watching for her. The moment she approached, he slid open the door, his body taking up the entire frame, heat rolling off him like he knew exactly what effect he had on her.

She tried not to look too long at the way his t-shirt clung to his chest. Or how his eyes darkened just a little as she passed. But she felt it—every inch of his gaze brushing over her skin.

She set the dishes on the outdoor table, then made her way to the chaise lounge, sinking down with a soft sigh as the last of the sunlight kissed her face. The warmth seeped into her skin, into her bones, loosening something tight in her chest.

Eyes closed, she let her thoughts drift.

Would her father have recognized her today? This version of Miranda—firm, strategic, unflinching? Would he have acknowledged her as a true leader, or dismissed her again for doing things differently than he would’ve?

She didn’t have the answer. But for the first time, she didn’t need it.

He was fallible. The heart attack had proven that. It had shattered the illusion of invincibility that had controlled so many decisions—hers included. The old ways were crumbling. And in that vacuum, she had found her voice.

She wasn’t just stepping into her father’s shoes—she was remaking the entire path.

Today, she’d taken command. Not with charm, not by asking politely, but with authority. Logic. Strength. She’d stared down resistance and won. And now, she had to hold that line, even with every eye on her, counting the days until Seamus Callahan returned.

The thought should’ve been terrifying.

It wasn’t.

She let the ocean do its work—waves crashing in rhythmic power, wind brushing over her skin like a whisper. Slowly, her breath evened out, the tension sliding from her shoulders.

And in the distance, she could still hear Lucas’s low, humming voice, talking to himself as he worked the grill. Masculine. Capable. Grounding.

With that sound in her ears and the heat of the sun lingering on her skin, Miranda let go of the day and let sleep take her under.