Page 28 of The Decoy

“There she is,” Brody calls out, his voice smooth and low across the quiet air, a lazy smirk on his face as he walks down the steps. “You made it past the traffic.”

“I swear the holiday traffic gets worse every year,” I reply, meeting him halfway up the steps while keeping a firm hold on Oshie’s leash. “And the crowds… I mean it’s good for business in the city, but for those of us who live there, it’s obnoxious.”

“And that’s why I live here and not in the city,” he chuckles, his eyes sweeping down my body, lingering with appreciation. “You look amazing, Princess. Glowing, even.”

“Eh, it’s just my ridiculously expensive Korean skincare regimen and sheer force of will, Vaughn,” I counter, smiling, though heat prickles my neck.

Before Brody offers another comment, Oshie decides formal introductions are unnecessary. She breaks from her heel and prances right up to Buckeye with her head high and her tail wagging like a propeller. Buck doesn’t flinch. He offers a noble sniff, then drops to his elbows and lets out a soft huff of approval.

Within seconds, I release her, and both dogs are running laps around Brody’s front yard, kicking up the fresh snow.

“Well,” Brody says, watching the dogs with his hands shoved in his front pockets. “Looks like they’re fast buddies.”

I arch an eyebrow, matching his stride as we step out of the wind and into his foyer. “Should we call them in or are they okay out there?”

“Let me call them and put them out back. I have a dog door for Buck in the mudroom, and he’ll teach her how to come in and out, but the backyard is more secure, and I can see him better from the kitchen.” He whistles for Buck, who stops immediately and runs toward the house, Oshie on his tail.

He holds out his hand, and I accept it. “Come on, you’re shivering.”

The inside of his home is gorgeous. High timber beams, hardwood floors, and a massive floor-to-ceiling fireplace already crackling with a real log fire. And the scent of something delicious drifts from the kitchen off of the living room.

I pause, sniffing the air. “Is that…garlic, chiles, and roasted pork?”

“That’s impressive! It is,” he says proudly, leading me toward the kitchen. “After lunch the other day, I realized I need to prove to you that I eat food outside Italian cuisine.”

“Listen, no judgement. I love Italian food too,” I state, leaning my hip against the large marble kitchen island, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Yeah, but a little variety doesn’t hurt,” he says, pulling out a heavy wooden cutting board. “Tonight, we’re doing Mexican street tacos. Slow-cooked carnitas, fresh guacamole, charred corn salsa, and pickled red onions.”

I stare at him, genuinely impressed, a playful smile touching my lips. “Brody Vaughn, did you actually stand here cooking all day, or did you have your personal chef leave heating instructions on a sticky note?”

Brody mock-gasps, resting a hand over his heart. “I’m deeply offended by your lack of faith in my cooking abilities. I chopped the onion, braised the pork shoulder, and even toasted the dried guajillo chiles myself, thank you very much.”

“I’m beyond impressed,” I tease, stepping closer to inspect the spread. “Although if I get heartburn at two a.m., I’m calling you to suffer through it with me.”

“Deal,” he grins, reaching for a small glass tumbler on the counter and pouring some chilled water over fresh lime slices before handing it to me. “Here you go. Gotta keep the mother of the future hall of famer hydrated.”

“He could be a corporate lawyer or architect.” I shrug my shoulders, taking the glass, my hand brushing his.

“Maybe, but I see some kind of sport,” he chuckles, turning back to the stove to check on the food. “ Just wait.”

To hide the sudden flush on my cheeks, I take a sip of the water and lean back against the counter, watching him move around the kitchen. He’s so comfortable in his own skin. Effortless and confident.

“So,” I begin, shifting into conversation. “Since we have roughly a few hours before the dogs destroy your backyard, I think we should make some rules for the evening. No work talk for me. You can tell me about your playoff run, but nothing about Overtime.”

“Agreed,” he says, flipping a warm tortilla over the gas burner with bare fingers without flinching. “What do you want to talk about instead? Other than our work.”

“Well, I like our little unfiltered truth banter we have going on,” I say, tilting my head. “Maybe a little deep-dive confessional of sorts. Like…what is something you do, or a way you feel, that you hate to admit out loud because it ruffles your persona?”

Brody pauses, the spatulas hovering over a pan. He turns his head slowly to look at me, his eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “You trying to set a trap for me, Ellis?”

Never,” I lie smoothly, giving him an innocent smile. “Just trying to get to know you better since we’ve been spending time together. So just answer the question.”

He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head as he pulls the crisp carnitas off the heat and transfers them to a wooden serving bowl. He wipes his hands on a towel, leaning his elbows on the island directly across from me, his broad shoulders framing my view.

“Okay,” he says, dragging the y, then lowering his voice in a mocking tone. “You want the absolute truth? Fine. But this stays between these walls. If any of my friends or teammates hear about this, I’ll deny it.”

“My lips are sealed,” I promise, matching his dramatics. “Spill it.”