Page 57 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter fifty-seven

I'm already seated by the time they walk in.

Muriel's is humming.

Jazz winds through the room, smooth and slow from the band near the front, champagne glasses clink, and the low murmur of locals and tourists blends into a soft, decadent buzz. From my seat, tucked against the wall of the table, I can see the Square through the old windows.

It should be the star of the morning. It's not.

Reagan walks in the heroine of her own why choose novel.

Hair brushed back in soft waves. That glow women only get after they've been thoroughly ruined in the best possible way. She's not trying to hide it either. Not today.

And the man prowling in behind her, hand at her lower back, all unreadable power stitched into every movement? Yeah. That's the one who did it. Grayson Calhoun sits beside her without needing to be told where .

Brooks, big golden lion of a man, takes the spot across from them next to Devon, who sat beside me we've been doing this for years.

Reagan's eyes catch mine across the table. There's a flicker of something. Hesitation, guilt maybe. Her smile is a little stiff.

"I didn't check in yesterday," she says softly.

Ah, so that's the guilt.

After everything she did, she thinks she's a bad friend because for once, she's reaching for something more. Honestly? It's wild and perfect that my something more is happening at the same time.

"Girl, please, I didn't get out of bed yesterday if you know what I mean."

"And you brought the reason you were in bed?" Her voice lowers, one brow rising toward Devon.

"Anonymous," I say with a small grin, reaching for my mimosa. "He has a name, you know. I even got a last one."

Reagan whistles low, but it's Grayson who speaks next, voice a low vibration.

"Devon Carter." The two men exchange a nod that feels it means more than words. A thousand unsaid things pass between them in half a second. I know enough not to poke it.

"So," I say, glancing around the table. "This is brunch now?"

"Apparently," Reagan murmurs, looking way too pleased for someone who definitely didn't expect this to be a group event.

Devon raises his coffee cup a toast. "Better company than I expected."

Brooks snorts, leaning back in the booth. "You didn't have to come, man."

"No," Devon says, eyes sliding to me. "I wanted to." Heat curls low in my stomach. I'm still figuring out what to do with Devon Carter, but whatever it is, it's mine .

The server arrives with the champagne cart, and I watch as Reagan orders a French 75, calm and confident, this is just another Sunday.

She doesn't flinch when Grayson lays a hand on her thigh beneath the table.

Doesn't even blink when Brooks reaches across to pour her water.

It's strange, seeing her this. Relaxed…settled. Like she's dropped her defenses.

And the thing that surprises me most? She doesn't look trapped.