Page 66 of Fatality on the Field

I think about how to answer that carefully. There’s a lot of ways I could respond—comfort, deflection, or even just empathy. We’re comfortable despite this heavy conversation, though, so I settle for, “I’ll bet you two muffins you’re not as on the outside as you think.” My voice is soft, but the words come from my gut, so I know they’re true. “You were a hero yesterday, too. You and Kimmi, plus you worked together without squabbling. It was very good and I know Morgana appreciated it.”

He sighs and lifts his head off my shoulder. For a split second, the absence is like cold air rushing in. “You’re such a squishy squid, Slade. I’m apologizing for being a douche again and you’re still telling me how fucking wonderful I am for doing the very least. You gotta stop that.”

“You came down here for comfort, not therapy, right?” I grin a little at him, hoping it will lift his melancholy.

Iggy finally steps back and moves to the other side of the counter to look at me seriously. His shirt is rumpled, the hem riding up over his hip, and there’s a line pressed into his cheek from a pillowcase. He looks like he’s been fighting sleep with pure stubbornness for the last hour, just like me. Maybe that’s why I feel so bad for him; he’s right in his declaration that I could join if I was brave enough to knock, but he could not.

“Give me something to do,” the tousled professor says as he props his chin in his palm.

I slide a banana in his direction and gesture to the cutting board. “You can do the slicing. I’ll trust you with a knife as long as you don’t use it on yourself.”

His lips twitch, but he takes the banana and starts cutting it with clinical precision. I finish mixing and pour batter into the second set of muffin tins, every movement calculated to avoid looking at him too long. I’m good at reading the room, but with Iggy, I always feel a half-step behind. He’ll go from ice to fire in a sentence, and right now, he’s somewhere in the gentle simmer range.

“Does it bother you?” he asks after a few minutes of quiet.

I pretend I don’t know what he means. “The muffin tins? I mean, I’m used to industrial batches, but it’s nice to do small batches every so often.”

When I do look at him, Iggy rolls his eyes, but his smile is real. “No, you jackass. The… the family thing. I mean, being inside but not quite all the way there yet.”

There’s a lot I could say. I could tell him that being a siren means always doubting whether people want you for you or for your magic, every close bond comes with the echo of what you may never have, or that even now, I’m terrified he’s going to realize he made a mistake by kissing me. But I don’t because I don’t want to make him feel bad again, especially because I’d have to admit that I feel very secure when I’m alone with Morgana. Instead, I look up to see he’s watching me, his eyes a little too bright for the hour.

“I like knowing that I belong in this family. I know Morgana wouldn’t leave me purposefully,” I say quickly. “It’s messy, but it’s real. I can wait for Lucas and Liam to get comfortable with me.”

He nods, and it seems to settle something inside him. “I’m not used to people wanting me around unless they need something, except for you.” He gestures, looking helpless as he makes a face. “You’re the kind of person who shows up and makes banana muffins for everyone at six a.m. when you can’t sleep. That’s kind of amazing, you know? I’m so scared I’ll ruin it like I do everything else.”

For a second, I have no words. The urge to do something with my hands is so strong I start cleaning a countertop that’s already spotless.

“Can I…” I start and then catch myself. “Is it okay if I just…?” I pantomime reaching out, and he gives a small, crooked nod.

I step around the island, now close enough that I feel the heat of his skin, and lean in to kiss him. It’s not a sweep-him-off-his-feet kind of kiss, just a brief brush of lips. Iggy tilts his head and kisses me back, but it’s so wonderful that I feel like I might float through the ceiling and straight into the sky.

When I pull back, we’re both grinning, and he says, “Good morning to us, I guess.”

I don’t trust myself to say anything, so I just turn back to the oven, switch the muffin tins, and try to hide the flush on my cheeks. Walking over to the fridge, I pull out some more ingredients to keep him from seeing how excited and geeky I am right now.

“Want to help with the frosting?” I ask, desperate to sound normal.

My friend snickers, and I know my cover is blown. “Absolutely. Just don’t ask me to do the mixing. You’ve seen me do spells, Slade. I’m messy as fuck when I’m putting potions together. Someone will lose their shit if they come down and we’ve trashed the kitchen.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” I say playfully. “It could result in serious punishment, which because of my excellent hearing, I know that you really hate.”

His eyes widen and I laugh as I turn to look out the window. Outside, the sky is just starting to lighten to the watery blue of pre-dawn. The noises from upstairs have finally gone quiet, or maybe I’ve stopped noticing them. All that matters is the kitchen, the smell of baking, and the promise of something warm and sweet in the near future.

I hand Iggy a bowl and a big spoon when I’m done making the frosting. When he accidentally flicks a streak of cream cheese onto my cheek, I decide that maybe I’m on the inside with him, too.

Who would have thought I’d see the day?

forty-one

MORGANA

The difference between a house and a home is about six hours of sleep, three orgasms, and the smell of banana muffins baking when you hit the bottom of the stairs. I’m showered and dressed now, with every inch of my skin sandblasted and buttoned into sharp lines. The moment I reach the back living area, the scent wallops me even harder than before, but this time it includes the heavenly nectar of fresh brewed beans that makes my mouth water.

Gotta say, a barista in the house is not a bad perk in the slightest.

I stop dead as I enter the kitchen, just staring at the tableau that greets me. Kaspar is at the table, both hands wrapped around a coffee mug, staring into it as if willing it to bite him first. He looks like shit—well, a slightly more combed, expensive brand of shit than usual—but he’s dressed in one of his rare casual outfits, so either he’s got specific plans or we’re all about to die.

Across from him, Iggy is settled into a very ‘professor-ly’ pose with his back straight and his fingers laced over a copy of the morning paper. If it weren’t for the faint shine on his glasses and the way his eyes follow Slade’s every movement, you’d think he was meditating. Instead, he’s clearly as enthralled with my gentle siren as I am. The thought makes me happy for Slade—and Iggy—because I know how deeply they care for one another and how hard they fought it.