Page 13 of Desperate Actions

The rest of the party is running late, and the wait is grating on my nerves.

I’m the oldest one here, aside from that fucking guy, and acknowledging it doesn’t do me any favors.

I don’t like dwelling on things that can’t be changed.

And yet—here I am.

“Whiskey?”

Connor’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I glance over just as he hands me a tumbler, two fingers of neat amber fire sloshing inside the crystal glass.

I raise a brow. “Platinum label?”

“Fuck yeah.” He dips his head in acknowledgment, his smirk lazy, satisfied.

I don’t even hesitate before taking a sip.

The burn is smooth, rolling over my tongue and sinking into my bloodstream like an old friend.

I’m a fan of this particular label—so much so that I hunted down the creator a few years back in Montclair.

The man owns a bar there with his wife.

Good people.

Good whiskey.

Hell, I liked the town so much, I bought a house there.

A place to disappear to when the noise of the world gets too loud.

“You boys and your whiskey.”

Clementine shakes her head, but there’s no real heat behind it. She’s grinning at her man, the kind of grin that speaks of quiet admiration and deep, settled love.

She takes a sip from her water glass, and my mind stirs with suspicion.

She doesn’t normally stick to water.

My gaze flicks to Connor, to the way his hand rests on the small of her back, protective, instinctive.

I wonder—is there another little Callahan on the way?

I don’t ask.

Because, fuck no—I do not want to know about my cousin’s bedroom activities.

But thinking about kids sends my brain spiraling in another direction entirely.

Thinking about kids makes me think of her.

Aella.

Aella—swollen with my child.

Aella—barefoot in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my shirt and the curve of my name in her mouth.

Aella—her green eyes soft, her body full and lush with the weight of something we made together.

---