Page 73 of Theirs to Hunt

Chapter sixty-one

Bobbie, Sunday 11:24 a.m.

Isay it it's simple. Like I haven't been dodging the same damn truth for weeks.

Reagan's looking at me now, really looking. Not with judgment. With that quiet curiosity she gets when she knows there's more under the surface. She cocks her head. "So where are you at with Devon?"

Shit. I lean back against the wall, take a slow sip of my drink, and buy myself two seconds of silence. Not enough. "He's.. steady," I say. "The steady that makes you wonder what he's hiding. But then you realize it's not secrets. It's control."

She nods. "And?"

"And that scares the hell out of me." I glance down. "I'm used to flash and fire. Quick tempers and faster regrets. But Devon?" I shake my head. "He watches and waits. And somehow still knows what I need before I do." I pause, mouth twisting. "He doesn't flinch when I'm sharp. Doesn't chase when I pull away. He just.." my shoulders go up helplessly, before I know they aredoing it, "stays."

Reagan smiles. "That's hot."

I snort. "It's dangerous." And it is. Because with most men, I've known exactly where the edge was. With Devon? I'm starting to think I'm the one on the ledge.

Reagan looks back toward the table, catches Brooks and Devon both watching us. She turns to me.

"Girl, I love you. This might be the best or the worst advice I ever give you. But go for it. Don't hold back." Her voice lowers. "What good is protecting yourself if regret is the only thing keeping you warm at night?" She nudges my arm. "Men like this don't grow on trees. Thoughtful. Attentive. Yeah, sometimes assholes. But it's a balance." Then she smiles. Not the wild reckless I am used to, this is softer and more certain. "And the fact it happened to both of us at the same time? Feels a gift."

We clink our glasses and turn to face what's next. Like every damn thing we've ever done in our lives, we do it together.

Chapter sixty-two

Reagan, Sunday 08:00 p.m.

The night air smells smoke and rosemary. Brooks is working the grill a few feet away, tongs in one hand, a bourbon in the other. Flames flick beneath the steaks, casting gold across his jawline. He hums under his breath, some old song I don't recognize, giving us the illusion of privacy while keeping one ear turned our way.

Grayson leans against the stone counter beside me, sleeves rolled to his forearms, shirt half unbuttoned. He looks relaxed, but I know better. That stillness is coiled. Contained.

"Good week," he says, eyes on where Brooks is transferring something on the grill.

I sip my wine. "It was."

"You held your own. Managers, handsy perverts, and us. Not everyone can go toe to toe with my son or me, personally or in business. And you impressed Devon. That's not easy." I raise a brow.

"That surprises you?"

"No," he says, finally looking at me. "But you impressed me too." There's something in his voice. Not just approval. He is being deliberate and measured.

"What are you leading up to?" I ask, setting down my glass.

He nods once. Like I passed another test. "I want you in the business. Officially. Not stuck in customer metrics or spinning gold out of broken AI."

My mouth opens, then closes. "Doing what?"

"Director of Special Projects. Not a real title. Not on paper. But it comes with access. And weight."

I laugh softly. "That sounds vague and threatening."

"It should," he says, with a hint of a smile.

"You're serious?"

"You turned around a failing department in six months. No new staff. No budget increase. You used a psych minor to restructure behaviors and communication. You didn't just improve performance. You rewired the system."

I blink. Not flattery. That's data.