Page 186 of Wild Card 13

Bea dipped a piece of toast into the whipped goat cheese. “That was a very polished statement.”

“Thank you.”

“It sounded rehearsed,” Bea added.

“It did,” Freya said.

Lo’s eyes warmed with mischief. “Sugar, I’ve heard congressional testimony with more emotional availability.”

I looked at her. “You are supposed to be the mature one.”

“Absolutely not. I am the best dressed one.”

Bea nearly choked on her tea.

Outside, snow drifted lazily past the igloo walls, softening the view of the neighboring rooftops. Inside, Bea’s laughter blended with Freya’s, the heater hummed near my boots, and Lo’s cinnamon roll left a faint smear of icing on the edge of her plate.

It should have been too much. The teasing. The attention. The way all three of them had turned toward the thing I most wanted to tuck into a drawer and lock.

Instead, it felt irritatingly safe.

“So,” Freya said, settling deeper into the cushions. “At what point during the event did this happen?”

“Near the end,” Bea answered before I could stop her. “He had just done the thing with Niko.”

Lo’s face softened. “I heard about that. Ezra told me.”

“Of course he did,” I muttered.

“He was proud of the event,” Lo said gently. “And of you.”

My fingers tightened around the glass. I cleared my throat. “The event went well.”

“It did,” Bea remarked, and this time her teasing eased into something warmer. “You ran it beautifully.”

“Bea, you built most of it.”

“And Charlotte tried to bury it in a shallow grave,” Freya said.

Bea pointed her fork at her. “Accurate.”

“You still led it,” Lo said.

I looked down at the blanket over my lap. “Thank you.”

Freya, mercifully, stole another potato and turned the room brighter again. “Back to Buzz emotionally collapsing.”

“I hate it here.”

“No, you don’t,” Bea said.

“I could.”

“You won’t,” Freya replied. “Arlo has amazing roasted potatoes.”

Lo smiled at me. “And cinnamon rolls.”

“And emotional harassment,” I added.