Page 121 of Myla: The Hawthornes

It didn’t make any sense. Everyone was doing well. Shit had been quiet. Aoife had found a job, and Sean was loving staying home with Aunt Ashley all day, tromping around in the rain. Aisling was healed—or at least the visible wounds were—and she’d started taking on a few tattoo clients twice a week. Ronan had moved out and was currently searching for an apartment for him and Aisling to share. Saoirse was Saoirse, taking care of her own shit and not making a big deal about it.

Things with Myla had been good, too. Great, actually. We’d always fit. We’d always liked spending time with each other more than anyone else. Now we had the added benefit of incredible sex and her whispering she loved me as she fell asleep at night. Only two things would’ve made it better—if she’d stop being such a pain in my ass and if she had a ring on her finger. The first thing was never going to change, but I’d already started making plans for the second.

There was a diamond ring currently burning a hole in my saddlebag.

It was probably way too soon for that shit, but it was us. Myla and I had started long before we’d made it official.

“You need anythin’?” I asked Gray, wandering over to the Corvette he was working on.

“Uh—” He was elbows deep in the engine and barely paying attention. After a moment, he looked up. “What?”

“You need any help? It’s slow as shit in here.”

“Nah, I’m good,” he muttered distractedly. Then his eyes seemed to sharpen as he looked at me closely. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“Somethin’ is.”

I shook my head.

“Spill,” he ordered, straightening fully.

“Nothin’,” I repeated. “I’m serious.”

“Bullshit.”

We stared at each other for a minute, and I knew that he wasn’t going to let me walk away.

“Got a feelin’,” I finally said. I sounded like a fucking moron.

“Yeah?”

“It’s nothin’,” I assured him. “Things are good, which is probably why it feels like the sky’s gonna fall at any minute.”

Gray’s lips twitched. “Come on, Chicken Little.”

I’d walked right into that one. I wasn’t sure if Wanker or Chicken Little was worse. Hopefully the name didn’t stick.

I followed Gray through the garage and into the clubhouse where Grease and Casper were sitting at the bar.

“Hey, Gramps,” Gray called out. “You got anythin’ new?”

“Things are quiet,” Casper replied, looking us over. “Why?”

“Chicken Little’s got a feelin’,” Gray replied.

Fuck me.

Grease laughed. “Sky’s fallin’? Might just be indigestion, kid.”

“I told him it was probably nothin’,” I agreed.

“The spot between my shoulder blades has been itchin’ all day,” Gray told his grandfather quietly.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked.

“Feels like there’s a target on your back,” Grease explained quietly.

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