Page 184 of Wild Card 13

“It is poached.”

“Exactly. Ambiguous.”

I stood in the open doorway of the igloo for one full second with cold air curling around my legs and considered backing out slowly.

Freya spotted me first. Her entire face lit. “There she is.”

Bea’s head snapped up. “Finally.”

“I am four minutes early,” I teased.

“And still, we’re all here before you,” Freya chortled, already reaching for the empty chair beside her. “Sit down.”

Lo turned toward me, and her expression softened with that particular warmth that always made something in me loosen before I had granted it permission. “Hi, sugar.”

The tenderness of it slipped in before I could brace against it. It was only Lo. Only brunch. Only her sitting there with one knee crossed over the other, wrapped in softness and perfume and the kind of affection that did not ask to be earned first.

Still, after last night, after Marion’s arms and Ruth’s fussing and the sudden ache of being remembered by people I had tried very hard not to miss, Lo’s voice felt like a much-needed hug.

Warm air wrapped around me immediately, carrying coffee, cinnamon, toasted bread, butter, and the faint bright sweetness of oranges from the mimosa pitcher. Beyond the clear igloo walls, Northbend spread below us in winter layers, brick buildings capped with snow, rooftop vents breathing steam into the pale sky, Talon Arena sitting several blocks away like it had been placed there specifically to test my emotional discipline.

The rooftop igloos glowed across the terrace like lanterns. Each one held its own small world of candlelight, blankets, low tables, and people pretending they had not paid extra for the privilege of eating brunch in a heated snow globe.

Arlo had done this. Of course he had. My little brother had taken an abandoned warehouse and turned it into one of the warmest places in Northbend, because apparently loving people through food, heat, and stubborn attention to detail ran in the family whether either of us wanted to admit it or not.

Freya patted the seat beside her again. “Come on. Bea is about to eat the breadbasket out of spite.”

I shrugged out of my coat and hung it over the back of the chair. Before I could sit, Freya leaned over and dragged a thick cream blanket across my lap. I looked down at it. Then at her. “Thank you.”

“Welcome,” she mouthed more than said with a subtle wink. “I know you.”

The table looked like Arlo had decided restraint was for other families. Lemon ricotta pancakes sat beneath a drift of berries. Acast-iron bowl of roasted potatoes steamed near Freya’s elbow. There were pastries, sourdough toast, eggs Benedict, a small skillet of tomato sauce and baked eggs, and the whipped goat cheese avocado toast that had apparently caused the entire operation.

Bea had already deconstructed hers. One poached egg rested alone on a side plate like it was awaiting trial.

I pointed at it. “Is that the defendant?”

“Yes,” Bea said.

Lo leaned toward me slightly. Her perfume reached me first, something soft and expensive with vanilla under it. “We’re hoping for a plea deal.”

“The sentence should be immediate removal,” Bea said.

Freya lifted her mimosa. “I offered to eat it.”

“You offered to destroy evidence.”

“I’m generous that way.”

A server opened the igloo door and stepped inside with a tray balanced in one hand. Cold air swept in behind her, lifting the edge of Lo’s silk scarf and making the candles shiver in their glass holders.

She set a tall glass in front of me. Dark coffee. Whipped cream. Nutmeg.

I frowned. “I didn’t order this.”

“Irish coffee,” the server giggled with a smile. “From Arlo.”

Bea looked at my drink, then down at her tea. “I’m being punished.”