Page 95 of Forbidden Bond

“Are we betting?” Hock called from the other end of the room.

“It’s gotta be something sex related,” Snuff’s voice came around the corner. Her guys covered all access points. “Could be a crossdresser.”

“Wouldn’t that shit be in the bedroom?”

“We’re not betting, this is a somber moment for me, respect maybe?”

“Shit,” Daly said and backed off a few paces. “Serious faces, guys.”

If whatever was in the chest was sensitive, she shouldn’t want others to see it. Still, when it came to being in that room and being protected, not only was she unwilling to take any risks, but her guy would tighten her collar if he believed she’d gambled her safety.

“Your boss shares my bed, you know.”

“We’d heard that scandalous rumor. Can’t be true. Snuff still thinks he’s in with a chance.”

Hilarious. The fools who teased her would also give their lives for her. Love came in many forms, some of them unspoken.

“Are we friends?”

“Are we—what?” Daly asked.

“Friends. Would you call me your friend?”

“I’ll call you any damn thing you want, or your boyfriend will slit me open.”

Semi-groaning, she lurched a little his way. “Forget that, I’m asking. Honestly. Are we friends?”

“Not if you want to bitch about your boyfriend or wax together.”

When had she ever done that with a friend? Strat wouldn’t be interested in either. So much for a straight answer. Wise guys could talk their way into, or out of, anything.

Her hand skimmed the varnished wood. The chest had been there, in her life, as long as her grandfather. She’d never once wondered what was in it or given it more than a passing thought.

Stop procrastinating.

No one would open the box for her. Whatever was inside, Conn would deal with it. If it required discretion, her guys were perfectly placed to handle it. She trusted them to be diplomatic.

Lupe’s insistence rang through her as she lifted the lid until it locked into place. Framed pictures were scattered on top, her grandmother, her father as a child, her and Lachlan seated together in a window. Lupe was right, this was worth looking at, and something she’d never imagined existed. A chest full of memories, of a love the McLeods weren’t the best at expressing.

Even if it wasn’t always overt, her grandfather had—

Under the pictures were folders, spines upward, labeled each with a series of years. Blue and red. One then the other. What was…?

Sliding out the first, she opened it up and… “These are Lach’s cases.”

Newspaper clippings, notes, his transcripts. Pushing the plastic pockets aside, one after the other, they presented a record of her brother’s life.

And the next one, the red…

“Bluebell?”

“These are mine,” she whispered.

Her articles for the school newspapers, clippings from the early newspapers and magazines that printed her words. Contest pieces that won, and those that didn’t. He’d kept notes and scraps of paper she thought she’d thrown away.

Every folder, every year, her grandfather had collected their lives, put them in order. Was this pride? Wasn’t that what Conn said? Her grandfather loved the city, but this? This was proof he loved them too.

Putting one folder down, she took off her jacket and removed her boots as she settled down on her ass.

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