Page 40 of Price of Angels

“What’s in ‘em?”

“Chocolate chipsandchocolate chunks. Hence the double chocolate brownies.”

Tango joined them, and asked her with a glance if he could have one, waiting for her nod before lifting one from the plate. “They smell fantastic, hon.”

“Thank you, Kev.” She sighed and looked at her brother. “Why can’t you learn from him how to talk to people properly?”

He ignored her. “No, I meant, what’sinthem?” He made a face and tilted the brownie toward her top side-up.

“On them,” Ava corrected. “Those would be sprinkles, Aidan.”

His face intensified in its disgust. “Why’d you do that?”

“They’re festive that way.”

“Yeah, man,” Mercy said, drawing up to the bar and knocking his shoulder into Aidan hard enough to set him off balance for a half-step. “It’s festive. Get with the program.” He took two from the tray, took a huge bite of one to prove to the others that they were not in fact poisoned, and then spoke around it as he chewed.

“Writer’s block?” he asked Ava, face sympathetic.

This was the third time in ten days she’d brought baked goods to the clubhouse for all the guys. “Really bad,” she said. “My brain won’t cooperate.”

“That’s the baby,” Briscoe said. “My Darla couldn’t focus on anything when she was pregnant with Ethan. She messed up the checkbook once, and then thought we were five grand short when it came time to pay the credit card bills.” He rolled his eyes, then offered her one of his friendly, gap-toothed smiles. “It’ll get better.”

“Sorry.” Mercy leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Brownies are good though.”

Aidan had finally taken a bite of his, and shrugged, forehead smoothing in surprise. “That’s not bad.”

“You dork, you ate the cookies I made earlier in the week.”

“Those were yours?”

“Ava,” Ghost said, appearing beside her much like his club nickname suggested. “Are you trying to win some kind of old lady award? I keep telling you we don’t have one of those.”

She bit back on a smart retort. He’d questioned her just a few days ago about the time she spent cooking, and the time she spent with her mother, and at the clubhouse. He was worried, in the same old Ghost-way, that she had given up her grad school and author dreams for Mercy. “Dad,” she’d told him, “no one wants me to pursue my writing more than he does. I can balance it. I can be an old lady and a writer too. Stop worrying.”

He’d never stop, though.

“I made too big a batch,” she said now. “I didn’t realize till they were in the oven that the recipe said it served twelve.”

“And we’re glad for it,” Dublin said, coming to take one.

“She’s working on a new story right now, aren’t you, baby?” Mercy said. To Ghost: “She’s gonna enter it in a writing contest. Where is it? Seattle?”

Ava nodded.

She could tell Ghost still flinched a little every time Mercy called her some pet name. And that was only hearing the tame, in-public ones, that had nothing to do with her eagerness in bed. Poor Dad. He was never going to relax.

But he nodded, said, “That’s good,” and gave them both an awkward smile before he walked off.

When the others were gone, brownies in hands and mouths, Mercy dropped his voice to a conspiratorial volume and said, “He’s just sore I keep calling him Gramps.”

Ava grinned. “I thought you liked Papa T?”

“Hmm. That’s too nice for him, isn’t it? Makes me think of someone with a bald spot and a spare tire.”

She shrugged. “I like Poppy.”

Mercy’s face split with the most evil smile. “Poppy? Oh, that’s it, then. Poppy. Pretty pretty Poppy.”

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