Page 56 of New Orleans Rush

“I did.”

“You plan on picking it up?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Not sure.”

Della nibbled her bottom lip.

It was an easy exchange. Normal, by all accounts. But Fox was being a foxier version of himself: motionless, shorter on verbiage and longer on unblinking stares. The only part of him that moved was his right middle finger, which tapped against his thigh. If Bea didn’t know better, she’d say he was trying to read Della. She’d also guess he was failing.

Della rubbed her breastbone and focused on Axel. “If I’m your sister, let me be the first to give you sisterly advice. Don’t taunt the chef. He’ll spit in your food.”

Axel didn’t flinch. “If he does I’ll tell Bea he thought he was a cat as a kid.”

Bea hurried into the living area and sat on the loveseat perpendicular to Axel. She placed her chin on her hands. “Tell me more.”

“You really must shut up.”

They ignored Huxley, and Axel’s grin grew. “He followed our cat, Houdini, around for months. He licked his arms instead of taking a bath. He ate on the floor beside her.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Bea clutched her chest and laughed until her sides ached. She didn’t have siblings. She’d see her cousins from time to time, but they’d spend their visits watching Duck Dynasty or arm wrestling, while occasionally lobbing spit balls at their grandmother, whose own spit would drool down her drunken cheek. Reminiscing wasn’t in their repartee. “Please go on.”

Axel didn’t need her cajoling. He looked positively gleeful. “He also stole our mother’s romance novels and hid them under his bed instead of Playboy. He thought they were dating self-help books.”

“Lies,” Huxley mumbled. When Bea’s renewed cackling shook her chair, he jabbed his knife at Axel. “Why don’t you tell her about the time you swallowed an entire GI Joe platoon to impress Lisa Hedgecroft with your supposed disappearing magic?”

Axel rubbed his stomach. “Not my finest moment.”

Fox quit tapping his thigh and relaxed into the cushions. “I still remember the pained sounds coming from the bathroom. Then he’d shout, ‘Got another one out.’”

She and Della shared a horrified look and dissolved into laughter again.

Huxley paused in his cooking, his attention on Bea as she swiped tears from her eyes. His Adam’s apple dragged a slow line down his neck and his two-tone gaze fastened on her face, his fixated stare pebbling her skin. He then gathered fresh herbs and Parmesan cheese from the fridge, always at ease in the kitchen. More guests didn’t faze him. Teasing brothers didn’t break his stride. He chopped and blended and sliced, happy to feed his family.

A family she felt a part of.

Twenty-eight years with her parents, and she’d always felt more castaway than crewmate: friend to her mother and mother to her father, forced to fight for her survival. Three weeks after being thrust into the Marvelous Marlow Boys’ world, and she belonged.

20

Once the dishes were cleaned up, and their lively guests departed, Bea changed into her PJs and joined Huxley on the couch. They’d learned to sit in the center where no framing poked their thighs, while leaving “appropriate” space between their bodies. Even without the contact, she felt like a root beer float, delicious and floaty. Full of bubbles and teasing laughter.

He switched on the TV, landing on a CSI rerun. They’d discovered their joint love of CSI recently. Huxley enjoyed puzzling out the crimes, while she loved the endings, knowing the bad guys would be caught. Wishing life imitated that art.

Ten minutes in, she narrowed her eyes at the screen. “The sister. It has to be the sister.”

“No way. The brother is dodgy. His best friend seeing him at a bike rally is as weak as alibis get.”