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"I notice everything."

"Yeah, little miss fucking ballache."

Across the room, Dane rocks back on two legs of a battered wooden chair, boots planted against the filing cabinet.

He flicks idly through his phone, the corner of his mouth lifting before he pockets it again.

"You know," he says, stretching his arms above his head, "there are lads our age enjoying their Sunday instead of drowning in paperwork."

Rafe snorts. "Aye? And what exactly were ya doing until half three this morning?"

Dane grins. "Taking in the local scenery."

I don't even bother looking up. That smug tone tells me some poor girl was talked into spending the night with him, and judging by the size of his ego, he's planning on dining out on it for the rest of the week.

"I hope ya paid her well," I say.

"She got a night she'll never forget."

"Oh, Jesus Christ."

Rafe laughs into his mug. "Was it that brunette who’s been eyeballin’ ya for weeks?"

"The very one."

"The one with the cute tattoo on her inner thigh?"

Dane points at him. "See? You noticed."

"I noticed because she nearly knocked over my pint with her tits trying to get to you."

“What can I say, she––”

I fire my pen at him, and it bounces off his chest. "I don't need to hear this shit."

Rafe's chair squeaks as he leans deeper, balancing his mug on his stomach. "You're only saying that because you've nothing to contribute."

"I've plenty to contribute."

"Oh, yeah?" he says. “Who’s been rattlin’ your bones?”

“Yeah, Sera,” Dane chimes in. “We want names and addresses so we can grill them.”

Through the window, Shay crosses the yard with his phone against his ear. He paces in the wind with his back to us and his free hand on top of his head.

Dane reaches for the tin on the windowsill, opens it, and frowns. “Who the fuck ate all the chocolate chip cookies?”

"I did," I say, flipping up my middle finger. "Snooze, ya lose, big lad."

He mutters something under his breath before settling for a plain one instead.

"I actually feel sorry for Ronan," Rafe adds.

The smile slips from my face, and I glare at him. “Why?”

"The poor lad has followed ya around for years."

"Doesn’t mean I have to marry him."