Page 103 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“I’m not moving to Pine Ridge.”

Rowan looks at me like I’m being belligerent and he’s run out of patience.

“You two,” he says, “are the most stubborn people I have ever met in my life. And I work for the FBI. I deal with genuinely difficult people professionally.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m the one who should feel betrayed here. I’m the one whose best friend and father were apparently … whatever you were, for three weeks, without telling me. I should be the one who’s upset.”

“Rowan—”

“Instead,” he plows ahead, “I’m sitting in your tragic apartment in Atlanta trying to figure out how to get two adults to talk to each other, which is not how I planned to spend my recovery.”

“Can we talk about something else?” I beg.

“No,” he says pleasantly. “But I am hungry. There’s a restaurant I want to try. Southern food, apparently very good. Come on.”

I change out of my sweatpants, which Rowan has made two derisive comments about, and into jeans and a light jacket, and we walk to the restaurant, which turns out to be three blocks from my apartment. I’ve ordered food from them several times but have never been inside.

It’s the kind of place that looks better from the inside than the outside—a narrow entrance that opens into a warm, well-lit space, and the smell of slow-cooked, good food makes my mouth water.

The server greets us and asks if we have a reservation. Rowan says yes, under Reeves.

“Right this way.”

The server leads us through the restaurant and out into a garden. It’s small, warm, strung with lights. There are four tables. Three of them are empty.

At the fourth, with his back to us, is Vaughn.

I stop walking.

Rowan puts his hand on my spine and pushes, gently but firmly, in the direction of the table.

I must make a sound, because Vaughn turns and sees us.

The way he narrows his eyes at Rowan tells me this is one hundred percent a setup he’s also on the receiving end of.

Rowan holds up both hands in a gesture of preemptive innocence.

“You can stop frowning,” he says to Vaughn. “That’s how you get wrinkles.”

Vaughn’s expression does not change.

“You two are going to talk,” Rowan says, looking between us with authority. “I’m going to get takeout, and then I’m going to the hotel.”

He focuses on Vaughn.

“Dad,” he says, “I suggest you don’t come back to the hotel tonight unless you want to catch me in a compromising situation. My good hand is still fully operational, and I need a vacation from your hovering. I suggest maybe you stay with Silas tonight.”

He turns to me.

“And you,” he says, “stop marinating.”

Then he turns and walks back into the restaurant with the server following him. Suddenly, the garden is quiet.

My hands shake from the need to reach out and hold Vaughn, so I bunch them into fists and sit down across the table from him.

I don’t know what to say.

He looks like he has plenty to say but doesn’t want to.

To think the reason we ended up in bed was because we were extremely good at communicating.