Page 16 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Thirteen

Delilah

“Your mom stopped by,” Malerick says instead of placing an order—or even offering a hello.

Without replying, I move behind the counter and start prepping his usual: frothy milk, two pumps of mocha, exactly like he likes it. This isn’t a latte, because according to Mal, lattes are for bougie people. He loves this one and as long as we don’t call it by it’s name.

I toss him a look over my shoulder. “Mom never leaves the house before nine in the morning. What are you talking about?”

“I meant yesterday,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck as if the admission costs him. “She showed up at the station and threatened to hex my plumbing if I ever break your heart.”

I pause, then arch a brow. “Oh, she’s going with the ‘ghost under the sink’ curse. Classic.”

I nod like I’m approving of her, trying hard not to laugh. It’s ridiculous—and hilarious—that this man believes her nonsense.

“She was pretty serious about calling on my ancestors,” he says, grim like her words came with consequences only the brave or stupid ignore.

“That sounds deeply spiritual,” I deadpan. “But you’re safe. There’s no heart to break, Mal.”

The words come out with more confidence than I feel. I glance at the pastries so I don’t have to look at him—at the way he’s watching me, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t.

“Anything to eat?” I ask. “Or did Mom fill your fridge while hexing it?”

His mouth twitches. “Keep mocking me, but I’m afraid of your mother.”

Then I burst into laughter—loud, unfiltered, curling through me like something I shouldn’t enjoy but do anyway.

His eyes crinkle. The corners of his mouth pull in that half-smile that never quite makes it all the way up to his eyes.

“Blythe is working with Atlas,” he says, like that’s supposed to change the mood.

“I know,” I reply, shrugging like it doesn’t matter. “I told him to hire her.”

“Of course you did.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

He leans against the counter like he’s anchoring himself. “I have a gut feeling.”

“That she’s part of the mafiosos?” I whisper with a mischievous grin.

“Fuck, Delilah, don’t say that in here.” He glances around like someone’s going to pull a gun out of the pastry display.

“I wasn’t loud,” I whisper, fighting a smile. “Believe me, the last thing I want is for that to blow up. You still owe me an explanation.”

He straightens. “About?”

I shoot him a look. “Everything. Including the—” I lower my voice to a whisper, “—mafiosos.”

His mouth opens, then closes. Suspicious.

Calculating. Like he’s trying to figure out how much I actually know—and how much I’m letting him believe I don’t.

I want Mal to say something. Anything. Even if it’s wrong.

Even if it’s not enough. But his silence is louder than my pulse, and that’s already screaming.

However, something suddenly shifts. It’s not a sound or a movement, just a change in the atmosphere. A tug beneath the surface of everything that makes sense.

Ding. Ding.

The bell above the door chimes before it opens, letting in a gust of wind that doesn’t quite belong. It brushes across the back of my neck, and something inside me goes still.

Cassian steps in like a fucking storm disguised as a man—coat unbuttoned, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes already sweeping the café like he owns every square inch of it.

Of course it’s him.

It seems like this man doesn’t just enter the room—he claims it. Like the space was waiting. Like we were.

The energy shifts again.

Doesn’t thicken.

It tightens.

Low and slow, like a warning that hums in my blood. Lust curled under tension. Malerick stiffens, and I don’t have to glance at him to know his jaw is locked, hands clenched.

He doesn’t need words either. Somehow, it seems as if Cassian’s presence rearranges everything.

I try not to react, but my pulse betrays me. Thumps harder. Not faster. Just harder.

Cassian doesn’t look at me right away. He knows I’m watching, and he draws it out, eyes scanning the room like he’s assessing exits, threats, or maybe just delaying the inevitable.

When his gaze finally finds mine, I feel it everywhere.

It’s a burn, slow and consuming. The kind of look that doesn’t just land—it invades, deep in my gut—and spreads like wildfire under my skin.

Hot and slow, like he lit a match behind my ribs, and now he’s just watching me try not to flinch.

It tingles at the back of my throat, rushes down my spine, and tightens every inch of me with want and warning.

This heat doesn’t ask for permission. Nope.

It claims. Scorches.

My fingers curl against the counter. My breath falters. I don’t blink, and neither does he.

There’s no smile. No smirk. Just that look—intense, unforgiving, and so full of things we never said that I almost forget how to breathe.

My fingers curl around the counter’s edge and I hate that my body responds before I can think. My stomach coils and my skin warms like it remembers things I never let myself admit.

Malerick clears his throat next to me. Loudly.

Cassian’s mouth curves into a smug smirk before, “Morning. Just the people I wanted to see.”

“Isn’t it too early for you to be out and about?” Malerick’s voice slices through the quiet with all the grace of a buzzsaw. Too rough. Too defensive. Too . . . him.

Cass shrugs a shoulder like the effort costs him something. “Probably. But I have work to do.”

Right. Because brooding law enforcement officers on the verge of unraveling don’t get sick days.

Malerick tenses, spine locking into that military posture he hides behind when he doesn’t want anyone to notice how human he is underneath. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s more like surveillance,” Cassian cuts in, casual as hell but there’s a slant to his tone. A tightness behind his smirk. He’s hiding something. Of course he is. But I don’t have the bandwidth—or caffeine—for calling him out.

Then Cassian nods toward Malerick like this is a goddamn group therapy circle. “You two talked yet?”

“We have to talk?” Malerick frowns.

I lift a brow. “He was just telling me about Mom hexing his dick if he doesn’t make me happy, but that’s all we had time for.”

Cassian laughs. Loud. Unapologetic. I snort along with him, and for a second, the air between us lightens.

But Malerick? He just stares. Eyes narrowing. Jaw grinding. As if I had insulted his honor, his family, and the last good donut at the station.

“This isn’t funny,” he growls, low and quiet, like thunder on the horizon.

I blink at him. “We disagree.”

Cassian clears his throat and folds his arms, posture pure. ‘I have information and no time for your emotional constipation.’ “So, today is my night off at the bar, which means I have time to . . . talk.”

He casts a glance at me like I’m a witness to his noble sacrifice.

“Oh, finally,” I say, my voice all faux excitement and inner panic.

I’m ready. Or I thought I was—until he follows it with, “Your house at seven?”

“No.” It comes out too fast, too loud. I sound like someone just asked if I wanted to pet a tarantula.

He blinks. “I think we’d be more comfortable there.”

I lift my chin. “With my mom?”

Silence.

I let that hang in the air like bad perfume. “Sure. Let’s do that. She’ll have lots of opinions about whatever you need to discuss.”

Cassian flinches like he’s just remembered who Rosalinda is.

“You live with your mom?” he asks, baffled. “Didn’t she have a house in?—”

“That house is under renovations,” I mutter, already regretting everything about this morning, including my yellow pants.

Malerick snorts. “For the past two years.”

“Yeah, and she’s not exactly the best roommate either.” I don’t mention the incense rituals or how she sings to her houseplants. “Nosy, loud, and naggy. Pick up your socks, Lilah.”

Cassian chuckles. “Fine,” he concedes, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll see you up in my apartment?—”

“No. I’ll text you an address,” Malerick interjects, gaze cutting through the moment with a quiet conviction.

His voice isn’t loud, but there’s a tension to it—like each word has been chosen, measured, and locked in place.

“There’s a place outside of town. Neutral ground. Just make sure no one knows about it.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Nothing says transparency like cloak-and-dagger rendezvous in the middle of nowhere.”

Cassian grins. “Now you’re getting it.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if this is worth it.” The words slip out before I can filter them. Half sarcasm. Half genuine existential crisis.

Cassian doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I’ll make it worth it.” He turns to Malerick with a look that walks the line between challenge and invitation. “As long as he’s not protesting.”

Malerick doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just crosses his arms like he’s shielding a truth he refuses to say out loud. His gaze lingers on me too long—like he’s working through something. Like maybe he is protesting. Silently. Internally. Loud enough to drown us all if he ever lets it slip.

Cassian claps his hands once, like we’re done here. “If that’s all, I’m heading to check on the good Dr. Moreau. Need my physical.”

Then he winks. He tosses it like confetti, then adds, “You two should get that too. Clean bill and all. I hate prophylactics, if you know what I mean.”

And just like that, he disappears. No shame. No filter. Probably no boxers under those jeans either, if I’m being honest.

I blink after him, then turn to Malerick, voice low even though no one’s around to hear the words claw their way out of my mouth.

“Did he just send us to . . .” I trail off, jaw twitching.

I can’t say it. Not even in a whisper, and to call them prophylactics.

What is this, the early 1900s? “He’s too forward,” is all I manage to say.

Mal tilts his head like he’s trying to decide if I’m amused or scandalized.

“He’s a lot like you,” he says, voice a quiet scrape against my skin. Like he’s known all along and was waiting for me to catch up. Like ‘Sweetheart, you just found your match.’

“You can still say no,” he adds. “He plays a dangerous game.”

“Seems like he’ll be delivering,” I mutter, my pulse kicking up at the mere suggestion. “I’m ready to be screaming his name—if he’s good.”

Mal doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He just stands there, all controlled and shit, in a world built on temptation.

“There’s always a cost, Del.” He says it like it’s a warning, like it’s a confession. “The question is if you’re willing to pay it.”

Then he turns.

Just turns.

Like we didn’t just dangle sex, secrets, and something that feels way too much like a challenge between us.

“What about your coffee?” I call after him, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.

He glances back. Briefly. Barely.

“I’ve got instant coffee at the station.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me in the dust of everything we didn’t say.

I stare at the empty space where he stood, hands on my hips like that might anchor me, even as my body thrums with a tension that’s got nothing to do with caffeine withdrawal and everything to do with the way his voice lingers in my skin.

My mother warned me about men like them. The ones who leave you needing, wondering, spiraling. But she never told me what to do when part of you wants to chase them down and demand answers—and the other part just wants to find out what else they sound like when they’re not using words.

Fuck.

I need a cold shower.

And a lie I can believe in.