Page 72 of Rising Heat

Tyler nods.

“And the whole handy thing comes from your dad?”

A grin pulls at his mouth.

“Our grandfather too,” he adds. “Sort of a family trait.”

“What, like a family of contractors?”

“Firefighters,” Mason answers.

I blink.

“Plural?”

“Dad, grandpa, Uncle Garrett,”

The look that passes between them is small but familiar, the kind that comes from telling the same stories for years.

“Wow.”

Tyler points his spatula at me.

“That’s exactly what Mom says every time Dad starts a project.”

“Because he’s handy?”

“Because he refuses to acknowledge the existence of professionals.”

A laugh slips out as I wrap my hands around the mug and finally take a sip expecting coffee and stop.

My brows lift.

Green tea. I look down into the cup, then back at the two of them. It’s not exactly impossible to figure out. They’ve both been in my apartment. They’ve seen the tea bags multiplying beside my kettle like a small herbal infestation.

I get hauled downstairs against my will and somehow they already remember how I take my caffeine.

I take another sip before I can think about that. My eyes drift shut for half a second, which is a mistake, because when I open them both of them are watching me.

Blink. Please blink.

The tea, the apartment, the fact that they’re both looking at me while dressed like that. At a certain point it starts feeling less like hospitality and more like a coordinated attack.

I clear my throat.

“Nobody should get to be this competent and also have good taste.”

Tyler makes a wounded sound.

“Wow. Didn’t even mention the pancakes.”

“I was getting there.”

He points at me with the spatula.

“See? She respects the craft.”

“Easy,” he says, eyes still on mine. “Encourage him too much and he’ll start narrating his own cooking show.”