Page 96 of Theirs to Hunt

Grayson doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look away either.

He just watches me.

And whatever he's thinking, he keeps it to himself.

Chapter seventy-seven

Grayson, Monday 06:38 p.m.

Idid not touch the hot dogs.

Did not make a comment either.

Let them have their little rebellion. Let them pretend they caught us off guard.

I opened an app, ordered from Commander’s Palace, filet, truffle mac, something with more integrity than what was sweating on paper plates.

Delivery in forty-three minutes. Too long to pace. Too soon to walk it off.

So I brought out the good bourbon and my travel humidor and set them both down on the patio table. A declaration.

Devon raised a brow but took the bottle.

Brooks, ever the golden retriever, grinned and handed out cigars.

The lighter clicked to life. The first curl of smoke rose like a warning.

Then they came back.

Bobbie dropped onto Devon’s lap and could not have looked more natural or comfortable. Did not say a word, just leaned back with the smug serenity of a woman who knew exactly how much chaos she had stirred.

Reagan, though...

She slid into Brooks’ lap, casual as a cat, her bare legs draping over his with infuriating ease.

She was in a tiny sundress I had not seen before. Probably bought just for tonight.

He tucked his arm around her waist, he could not help it.

But her eyes were on me.

Always on me.

She leaned over the table, slow enough to draw blood, and popped open the humidor I had just set down.

Took her time picking one, then did that little shake by her ear. She was listening for a rattle, probably saw that in some old movie one time.

No one does this. But she had a point to make.

The move was theatrical. Intimate.

She leaned in close, just past Brooks, until I could smell her, sin and fire.

"Can you circumcise this for me... and give me a light?"

The cigar dangled between her fingers.

Her mouth was curled in a smirk, but her eyes were daring me. Green with gold. Waiting for my reaction.