Page 7 of Synced to Us

“Who says I need it?”

In answer, Mason gestures to said couch. The back cushions are tossed on the floor. The creased and battered squares balance against my various luggage bags, all opened and spilling onto the marbled tiles.

“Need what?” a light voice asks.

“Give me that.” Mason hip-checks me aside and takes over stirring the eggs on the stove, giving his wife the full-wattage smile that paid for a helluva lot of our concert tickets as she enters the kitchen. “Look, sweetheart! I made you eggs with extra cheese!”

Her focus strays to the living room, wincing at the mess. Now I feel like a true bastard. “I’ll clean it after breakfast. Swear.”

She nods, then frowns and sniffs the air. “I smell burning.”

“Blame Wyn.” Mase backs away from the stovetop and offers McKenna her one allowed cup of coffee instead. “He did it.”

“Pussy,” I mutter.

Mason grins at me over his mug.

McKenna wanders over and peers at the sizzling pan. She seems to accept the contents because she grabs the handle, finds a plate, and dishes out the eggs. “Must not be the eggs. I smell burned food everywhere I go these days. It’s like a pregnancy tic.”

“Then I cooked them,” Mason says.

“Uh-huh.” McKenna lifts her gaze from her plate and shares a look with Mason. Their eyes clink together, magnets locking on, before pulling away and going about their business like they didn’t just eye-fuck each other in the span of two seconds.

McKenna’s always been radiant, but pregnancy brings out the rosy fullness of her cheeks and softens her chestnut hair to an amber, sunset hue.

My fingers tingle, itching for my workstation keyboard while my mind plays corresponding notes in my head. Would the melody of love under a jeweled sunset play better in C minor or C major?

“Wyn?”

“Hmm?” I glance up from the counter.

“Where’d you go, man?” Mason takes another loud sip of coffee. “Mack asked you a question.”

“Oh—sorry. I had an idea…” I scan the area for a notebook or the back of a receipt, but find nothing in this metallic, shiny kitchen. “Say that again?”

McKenna smiles. There’s an indulgent tilt to her lips, making me kind of feel like a child at her feet. “You’re in composition mode. I get it. I’ll let you make your escape shortly, but what were you and Mase talking about, and how does it involve Dee?”

Any remaining musical leanings dissipates from my mind. “It doesn’t.”

“We were talking about his money problems,” Mason jumps in.

“Man, fu—”

But I don’t get the curse out before McKenna provides the more mature answer. “I doubt Dee would have the time.”

“See?” I point to McKenna but speak to Mason. “Dee’s best friend says she won’t do it.”

“I didn’t say that,” McKenna muses as she wanders to the couch, thinks better of it, then perches on a bar stool.

I glare at her like the traitor she is.

McKenna’s oblivious to my displeasure, or more likely, ignores it. “Dee works with major accounts now, like corporations and self-made billionaires. I can’t remember the last time she took on an investment less than seven figures.”

“That doesn’t mean she can’t,” Mason points out.

“I guess.” But Mack doesn’t look convinced. “Do you want me to put a word in?”

“No.”

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