Page 39 of Mane Rival in Store

The kitchen was a war room disguised as a home. The pernil dominated the oven, filling the brownstone with a fragrance that Rune’s lion wanted to roll in. Harrison Coleman stood at the stove stirring a pot of rice with one hand and gesturing at a stock ticker on his phone with the other, tall and broad-shouldered in weekend cashmere, his salt-and-pepper hair and easy smile projecting a comfort that masked what Rune recognized immediately: calculating eyes—he’d built a firm from a scholarship and a dream and spent thirty years learning how money moved.

“Rune Sterling!” Harrison set down the spoon. Crossed the kitchen. His handshake was different from Vivienne’s—warmer, longer, the grip of a man taking a physical measure. His eyes crinkled. They also didn’t blink. “I’ve been reading about your Oslo expansion. Impressive logistics. How’s the Q3 pipeline looking?”

Rune recognized the test. An investment banker didn’t ask about quarterly pipelines at dinner unless he was evaluating. “Strong. Year-over-year consignment growth is at fourteen percent, and the rare editions market has outperformed projections.” He paused. Added: “Excluding the counterfeiting issue, which we’re addressing.”

Harrison’s eyes flickered. Calculating to interested. “Lark mentioned the forgeries. Nasty business. You’ve pulled the full consignment pipeline for re-authentication?”

“Complete freeze. Three-week timeline.”

“Revenue impact?”

“Significant but absorbable. The reputational risk of inaction exceeds the short-term financial hit.”

Harrison nodded. The nod of someone who had heard the right answer and was recalibrating his threat level downward by a degree. “Good. Good answer.” He clapped Rune’s shoulder. “Wine?”

Rune produced the bottle he’d brought. A 2015 Brunello di Montalcino—red, as instructed, from a vineyard he’d visited with his father six years ago. Harrison took it, read the label, and his eyebrows rose in an expression that communicated respect more clearly than any quarterly report.

“You brought a Brunello to a pot roast dinner.”

“Lark recommended red. I applied judgment.”

“Dime la verdad—did she tell you I was a wine snob, or did you do research?”

“Both.”

Harrison laughed. Full, rich, the baritone filling the kitchen. He pulled the corkscrew from a drawer and went to work on the bottle with the reverence it deserved. Vivienne, at the stove, exchanged a glance with Lark that covered an entire conversation in two seconds.

A clatter from the hallway. Oliver Coleman arrived with Sybil on his arm, a six-pack of craft beer in his free hand, and the specific energy of a younger brother who had been waiting for this moment with the enthusiasm of someone approaching a spectator sport.

“So.” Oliver set down the beer. Crossed to Rune. Looked up—because at six feet he still had to look up, and the looking-up was visibly annoying to a man who was accustomed to being the tallest person in most rooms. “You’re the neighbor.”

“I am.”

“The one who sent my sister a cease-and-desist about her music.”

“That was never sent.”

“The one who called her store ‘an assault on curation.’”

“That’s been taken out of context.”

“The one who—” Oliver pulled out his phone. Scrolled. “—and I’m quoting my sister here— ‘has a jawline that could cut glass and the personality of a museum pamphlet.’”

“Oliver.” Lark’s voice carried the particular frequency of a woman whose brother had accessed the archive and intended to deploy it. “Put the phone away.”

“I’m conducting an interview. It’s journalism.”

“It’s harassment.”

“It’s due diligence.” Oliver pocketed the phone. Grinned at Rune with an expression that was half charm, half warning. “Welcome to the family dinner, man. The wine was a good move.”

Sybil appeared beside Oliver and offered Rune a smile that could have defused a hostage situation. “Ignore him. He’s been rehearsing that since Lark texted.” She extended her hand. “Sybil Nakamura. We’ve technically met through Lark’s stories, but this is the formal version. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Her handshake was gentle. Her eyes were not. Behind the sweetness, the same quick assessment he’d seen in Vivienne—a different instrument, same purpose.

Rune respected it. He respected all of it—the mother’s interrogation cadence, the father’s financial vetting, the brother’s protective theater, the best friend’s silk-wrapped vigilance. This family loved Lark with a ferocity that expressed itself through scrutiny, and Rune understood ferocious love expressed through structure. His Pride operated on the same principle. Different architecture. Same foundation.

Dinner was an assault on every Scandinavian instinct he possessed.