Page 52 of New Orleans Rush

Still gripping his chef’s knife, Huxley stopped chopping his onion. “I don’t remember inviting either of you.”

Axel pulled his phone from his pocket. He grinned at the screen and began typing while talking to Huxley. “It’s Monday Funday. You used to cook for us on Mondays.”

“I used to cook for you every day. Then we grew up.”

Their mother could burn water. Max Marlow’s kitchen skills hadn’t been half bad, but he hadn’t been home enough to use them. Out of necessity, Huxley had learned how to make lasagna at thirteen, burritos shortly after. Melted cheese made all the Marlow boys happy.

“I miss it, big bro,” Axel drawled. “I miss our family time.” So engrossed in his phone, he wasn’t even looking at Huxley.

Family time, my ass. But Huxley gentled his tone. “How’s Stanley doing? The antibiotics work?”

“Like a charm.” He glanced up from his cell, relief etched in his face. “Your vet was awesome. No surgery needed.”

Thank God for that.

Fox moved to the living room and paused to study Bea’s art. The smaller paintings she’d been working on were as brilliant as her ongoing self-portrait. Less personal, but skillfully crafted. He hadn’t asked her why she’d painted his burned eyebrow in her larger portrait, or a section of his cape. He wasn’t sure if it had been planned or had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. All that mattered was that she’d done it.

“She’s talented,” Fox said, nearing one of her miniatures.

Huxley smiled. “Very.”

She’d gushed when describing her new apple series, how each fruit was built from tiny squares, like her portrait, these focused on insects and animals that fed on the produce. Close up, you could make out the armor of a flathead borer beetle, the wings of a codling moth, a horse’s powerful thigh. From afar, the three-dimensional fruit took shape. Like his world was taking shape around her.

“But you’re still not sleeping with her,” Fox said.

Huxley almost lost control of his knife. “What business is that of yours?”

He hadn’t explained the details of his relationship with Beatrice, only telling his brothers she couldn’t afford rent and was crashing there. Too much information turned Fox into a psychoanalyst and Axel into his worst nightmare.

Axel actually put his phone down. “You’re not sleeping with her?”

Huxley chopped faster, mutilating the poor onion. “Again, not your business.”

“But she’s hot…unless she doesn’t dig you. Is it the stripping? Have I ruined her for other men by strutting around shirtless?”

“The only thing you’ve ruined is my appetite.”

“Is it the size of my wand? She did say she’d like to make it shoot sparks.”

Huxley breathed through his flaring nose. “I’m the oldest brother. I have the Elder wand. There’s no competition.”

“Is she saving herself for marriage?” Axel barely maintained a straight face.

Huxley should never have given his brothers emergency apartment keys. At least Beatrice hadn’t come home from work yet. “Why are you taunting a man holding a knife?”

Axel returned his attention to his phone.

Fox sunk into the couch and picked up the pink pony. “You have the most uncomfortable couch, and I’m scared to ask about this.”

“The sofa sucks. And if you value your life, you’ll put that down.” Huxley wasn’t sure when he’d gotten possessive over the plastic pink toy.

Fox shrugged and swapped the pony for the puzzle box. “I screwed things up with Beatrice for you.”

The comment stopped him short. “First of all, nothing’s screwed up. Second, how is any of it your fault?”

Fox pushed at the sides of the box, trying different orders and sequences. It, of course, didn’t open. “The night you finally kissed her, I gave you that ring and watch. Mentioned the poker game. She looked ready to faint and things changed after. Does she have a gambling issue?”

Releasing the knife, Huxley planted both hands on the white counter. “Understatement.”