Page 49 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“Don’t look at me.” I hold up my hands in protest. “I’m genuinely the wrong person to ask about Pine Ridge gossip.”

“If you want to be a super dad,” Silas says, his expression holding too much amusement, “you could always ask Tess.”

“Tess,” I say, “sent me a message this morning, saying she’s dropping off your favorite bread this afternoon, so I’d say you’re in an equally good position to ask her.”

Silas’s expression opens up even more. “We should have them over for dinner,” he says. “Tess and Clayton. With everything she’s been dropping off, it seems like the right thing to do.”

“It does,” I say. “I’ll ask her when she comes over.”

I’m reaching for my coffee when I become aware Rowan has gone quiet.

He studies his friend, then turns my way.

“What?” I ask, my spine itching under his perceptive gaze.

“Nothing. It’s just that you two sound like an old married couple.”

“We don’t⁠—”

“‘Tess is dropping off your bread,’” Rowan says, with his best impression of me, “‘and we should have them over for dinner, and I’ll ask her when she comes, and—’” He shakes his head. “All you need is a casserole dish and a shared calendar, and you’re done.”

Heat rises in my face.

Silas holds up his left hand.

“I’m nobody’s husband,” he says. “If anyone wants this,” he runs his hand down his chest and abs while staring directly into my eyes, “they’re going to have to put a ring on it.”

Rowan laughs.

I turn back to my coffee.

If only I were free to do exactly that.

Maria arrives with food, and Rowan, after more flirting with the poor girl, tells me about their river adventure and the times Silas woke up because he thought he heard a bear.

For the next hour I’m just there. Watching my son eat and tell stories. It couldn’t be a more perfect morning.

Back at the farm, Rowan raids my fridge for road snacks and checks that he has everything in his car.

He hugs me first. “I’ll try to come back for the festival,” he says against my shoulder.

“Try hard.”

He pulls back and then hugs Silas. They share some words between them, but I can’t catch what he says.

The sound of his car fading down the access road is one of those sounds I’ve grown used to. It’s familiar and bittersweet in equal measure, the sound of my son going back to his own life, which is exactly what I raised him to have.

The house settles around us.

Silas is still gazing at the access road through the kitchen window.

“What did he say to you?”

He turns. “When?”

“Just now. Before he left.”

“He said to take care of you,” he says. “What are your plans today?”