Page 1 of One Night Flame

ONE

CORD

The scent of waffles hit me the second I stepped into the kitchen. Sweet, buttery, and just self-important enough to sayDonkey’s cooking again.

“Who used the last of the good syrup?” Powell Ferguson—Donkey to everyone but the IRS—didn’t even look up from the waffle iron as he barked the question. “You animals finish my syrup again, and I’ll make kale waffles next time. With chia.”

I skirted Twitch, who was bouncing in place near the coffee pot like he’d just freebased an espresso shot, and caught Meatball mid-reach for a finished waffle.

“I swear I was just checking for doneness,” he insisted, completely full of it.

“You were checking it with your hands,” Powell snapped.

Meatball grinned. “That’s how you know it’s homemade.”

Twitch’s knee bounced double-time as he watched the syrup situation unfold. “Wasn’t me, by the way. I don’t even like bourbon syrup.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “you like that sugar-free chemical stuff that tastes like melted guilt.”

He pointeda finger at me. “Zero calories, one hundred percent performance. This temple doesn’t run on corn syrup.”

I was halfway to the coffee when Moose bumped into the paper towel holder with his elbow, sending it rolling across the counter like a bowling pin. He caught it just before it hit the floor, then gave it an apologetic look. “Did somebody rearrange in here?”

“Same setup as always.” Peach walked in just in time to flick him on the back with a dishtowel. “Which you’d know if you paid attention, Goliath.” Then she turned on me. “And there he is—Mr. Centerfold himself.”

I threw her a smirk over my shoulder as I grabbed a mug. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” she said. “For the rest of us.”

Meatball snorted. “Seriously, Hollywood. What moisturizer are you using now? You look like you just stepped out of a commercial for sad billionaire perfume.”

I held up a finger. “First of all, it’s called grooming. Second, that stuff’s expensive. Third, I do not wear sad billionaire perfume.”

“Sure you don’t,” Twitch said, already halfway through his first waffle. “But if you did, you’d make it look good.”

Peach leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “So, Hollywood, you working on your smolder for the auction yet?”

I sipped my coffee like it had bourbon in it. A guy could dream. “All I’m saying is, if anyone’s getting auctioned off, might as well give the people what they want.”

That was a mistake.

“Oh no,” Meatball groaned. “Not this again.”

“Pretty sure I saw him do finger guns at the mirror last week,” Twitch added. “Twice.”

“Hair’s too perfect,” Donkey muttered as he poured morebatter. “He’s either selling shampoo on the side or summoning demons.”

Moose grunted as he flopped into a chair. “I saw him floss after a donut.”

I held up a hand. “Okay, one, cavities are no joke. Two, I do not do finger guns. That was a double-point. Completely different genre of gesture.”

Peach just shook her head. “You’re lucky you’re not as annoying as you should be.”

That got a laugh out of the group, and I leaned into it with a grin that I’d perfected over the years. Easy, practiced, just the right edge of self-deprecation. People liked charming. Charming was predictable. Safe.

I kept it light because light didn’t get people hurt.

It wasn’t a conscious thing. It never was. Just a reflex I’d picked up along the way. Make ’em laugh, keep ’em smiling, and nobody ever asks what’s under the hood.

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