Page 82 of Cinder
“Crystal clear,” Remi says, smiling into her glass.
“You know what I meant,” Evan mutters.
“Oh, yeah.” Colt claps him on the shoulder as he turns back toward the grill. “I definitely did.”
Around me, the conversations overlap and pick up again in loud, easy waves. Nobody hesitates over me being here. Nobody does the awkward double-take or the polite, tight smile that sayswe weren’t expecting company.
Frankie’s already dragging a chair into the gap beside her and pats it.
“You’re here,” she announces. “Which means you sit by me. That’s a rule.”
“What rule?” I ask.
“The one I just made.”
I laugh before I can stop myself and lower myself into the seat, then look down at my plate.
“I thought this was a Sunday roast?” I ask, eyeing the slaw and brisket.
“It’s a term we use liberally,” says Luke. “If there’s any sign of sun whatsoever, we must barbecue. Even in February.”
Evan pulls out the chair on my other side, setting Elle’s penguin on the table in front of us as he takes a seat. I’m so fully aware of him, it’s ridiculous. The proximity and the way he hovers just enough to check I’m okay without crowding or smothering. The heat of him beside me, the rough scrape of his knuckles against the table when he reaches for his drink, the steady spread of his thigh beside mine.
Last night sits between us, unspoken still. No one else seems to realize how much of a thread I’m hanging by, which is probably for the best.
Mason moves over from the grill, his eyes gleaming.
“So, Penny,” he says, deliberately casual. “You ever seen a Fire Hall before?”
“I’ve only seen the grill so far,” I reply.
Evan’s hand lands briefly at the small of my back, steadying me as Max bumps past behind us. His palm is warm and broad through my shirt, and it lingers a fraction longer than necessary.
“I can give you a tour soon,” he mumbles huskily. “If you want.”
Heat climbs my neck before I can stop it, and from across the table, I realize Remi is watching. And Frankie. They exchange the smallest look, the sort women have been using for centuries to saywell, well, wellwithout moving their mouths.
Elle, however, is also watching. And she has not grown into the subtle exchange etiquette, yet.
“Why are you talking like that, Daddy?”
Evan’s hand drops from my back so fast I almost laugh.
“Like what?”
“Like when you’re all sleepy.”
Colt chokes on his drink, and Mason looks toward the sky as though God himself has personally blessed him.
“He was being polite,” I say, because apparently I would rather leap into traffic than let Evan die alone.
Elle nods seriously. “Daddy does that when he’s shy. Oh—are you shy of Penny, Daddy?”
Remi hums thoughtfully and watches Evan squirm. “Great question, Elle.”
Evan’s ears go red, and I am not proud of how much I enjoy it.
“Steak,” he says, pointing vaguely at the grill as if meat might save him. “I’m checking the steak.”
