Page 15 of Laurels and Liquor

I hum a small laugh, turning my chair to face him. The room is bathed in reds and oranges, the fading sunlight throwing harsh shadows across the marble floor. Mateo’s dressed for business, which soothes me a little. I’d been worried he’d shut down after he took a few days off to take care of Lydia, but he’s at least trying to keep up appearances while Rhett’s gone. He tosses his jacket over the back of one of my armchairs, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows as he strides over to the bar cart. The muscles under his tattoos flex while he pours himself several fingers of his favorite bourbon into a glass before taking a swig. I tilt my head to the side, curiously studying him as his throat works. Grimacing at the burn, he turns to face me with a hand in his pocket.

“So. I’m here, as requested. What’s so important that you couldn’t talk to me at the pack house?” he asks dully, slowly pacing toward me.

I bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from firing back. A little crease appears between Mateo’s brow when I don’t respond to his goading, but I ignore it. Taking a deep breath, I set my shoulders and look up at him. “Seth,” I state simply.

The scowl that crosses his face strikes a nerve in my chest. Mateo is too good to have been caught by someone like Seth, but that may have been why he’d been targeted in the first place. I remember the affable, boisterous alpha I’d met at the conference in Las Vegas all those years ago, the one so passionate about making a difference that I couldn’t help but like him. But he’s been hardened by years of Seth’s abuse, and I can hardly stand it. And with Lydia ready to take things to the next level, we no longer have time to spare. Which is why we have to deal with him once and for all.

“Has anyone spotted him?” Mateo asks, words stilted.

As I shake my head, Mateo curses under his breath. I stay quiet as he moves toward the window behind me, stopping when he’s just past my chair. Turning and standing, I cross my arms as I settle next to him. I breathe in the smell of the bourbon as it mixes with the citrus notes of his aura on his next sip. As Mateo shifts his weight, his arm brushes mine, and I shiver, moving away from the ceiling vent I must have accidentally stood under. We don’t look at each other for a long time, the air charged with four years of accumulated unspoken feelings. We’d stopped playing the blame game a while ago, at least out loud. But there were times he’s looked at me, and I can read the bitterness in his eyes. If it weren’t for Rhett, I’m sure he would have disappeared into the sunset a long time ago. Mateo takes another drink and I sigh.

“I’ve got a plan to flush him out, and hopefully deal with him,” I murmur, keeping my voice down despite us being functionally alone in the building.

“Is this you asking for permission or forgiveness?” he shoots back with a scoff.

“Permission. Because this is as much your decision as it’s mine, Mat. Trust me; I’d love to give you plausible deniability here, but it’s not possible.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mateo throw back what’s left of his drink and turn to me. He leans sideways against the glass, running his free hand through his sandy brown hair. I don’t know how, but his hair always settles into a frustratingly handsome coif, regardless of how much he messes with it. Wet, dry, tangled, or combed, his hair is always perfectly ruffled and soft enough to run your fingers through. Not that I’ve ever done that intentionally or anything. He puffs his cheeks, and then lets out a slow breath.

“All right, lay it on me,” he says at last.

As I explain, I specifically don’t look at him, because if I see one shred of doubt or anger in his eyes, I’ll abandon this entire endeavor without a second thought. It’s risky, with too many places for things to go wrong, but the safe road has failed us. This plan is the only way I can see to get us free. When I finish, there’s a long, heavy silence. It stretches on and on, until I can’t take it anymore. I turn and find Mateo looking off into the middle distance behind me, brow furrowed in thought.

“So… what do you think?” I ask hesitantly.

“You know, of all the batshit things I thought you’d suggest, I have to admit that this didn’t even make the list,” he says slowly, turning to look me in the eye.

His soft brown gaze shines in the last rays of sunlight, full of too many emotions for me to sort through. He’s not dismissing me out of hand, which is encouraging. And I swear I see a spark of hope in the depths of his pupils.

“My father’s already agreed, but you know how he is,” I reply softly, but not weakly.

“What’s the going rate for Leopold St. Clair’s assistance these days?” Mateo snorts with a small shake of his head.

“He wants The Valencia. Outright,” I reply shortly.

“Ah. So just our firstborn. I was afraid he’d ask for a favor,” Mateo retorts with a sigh.

I can’t help but huff a little chuckle. Mateo’s lips twitch up at the corners at the sound of my laugh, his little grin bringing a strange heat to my cheeks. But the expression drops as he looks away, thoughtful again. I don’t blame him for wanting to really think through any deal that involves my father. Even though it’s the scene of the crime, so to speak, we’ve always held The Valencia in a special place of honor. It was the first project we picked as a pack, the first restoration under the combined banners of the St. Clair Foundation and C&H Design. Giving up our firstborn, as Mateo so eloquently put it, will be tough, but it’s better than pretty much every alternative offer he brought to the table, worst of all a flat IOU. I’d rather sell my soul to the literal Devil than owe my father an unspecified favor. The Devil, at least, would wait until after I’ve died to torture me for eternity.

“And it’d be clean? No way for it to get traced back to us?” Mateo asks into the silence.

I nod once. “I want to keep Rhett, Luc, and Lydia out of this. If we limit the people involved, it’ll reduce the risk of leaks.”

He sucks his teeth skeptically and tilts his head, making me sigh.

“I know, but it’ll be safer this way. Plausible deniability,” I reply flatly.

“Were those your first words?” Mateo shoots back.

“No, my first words were ‘I’ll do it myself,’” I reply, completely deadpan.

“Wait, really?” Mateo splutters, turning to look at me.

I roll my eyes with a smile. “No, of course not. It was Nana.”

Mateo throws his head back and laughs, clutching his stomach. I can’t help but join him; his laugh has always been more infectious than the common cold. The silence that follows the last of our humor is more comfortable, and we both look out over the skyline and the setting sun.

“After what Seth did, you’d really trust me with this? To have this secret hanging over your head?” he asks seriously.

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