“Is this maybe why he’s such a fuckup?” Mag asked, trying to go as delicate as possible, but considering the subject, delicacy was virtually impossible.

“I never went so far in my head to try to figure it out. But maybe. Mostly, he’s a lot like Dad, even though he’d be major ticked I said that. Life’s a party. Bills to pay?” she asked sarcastically, making her way back around him and bending to open his cupboard to grab a skillet. “What? And I need to make money to pay those bills? What? There are concerts to see and I have to be the guy who brings the best bottle of tequila to the party so everyone will think I’m hot shit and come to me to get a shot. The government is way too in our business. Drugs should be legal. Prostitution should be legal. A good time should be lawful to be had by all and damn the consequences faced by those subjugated to it or those on the periphery of it who want no part of it.”

They were skimming close to her stripping and Mag wasn’t going to take it there.

If she wanted to talk about it, he was game to listen.

No judgments.

But her Computer Raiders getup wasn’t as cute as that tee she had on.

Noting that, if it was his choice, she’d be off Smithie’s stage and fixing people’s computers full time.

And earning her degree the rest of it.

It wasn’t his choice.

“So yeah,” she went on. “I think Mom spoiling Mick and doting on him, and making me, and in some cases Sid, pick up his slack made him lazy and selfish and thoughtless. But I think for him it’s in the genes.”

She pulled out the leftover slices of bacon that weren’t cooked that morning and arranged them in the skillet.

She turned on the gas, adjusted it and looked to him.

“Do you think I should prepare for something really bad happening to my brother?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he told her.

She stared at him.

Then she asked, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Not something I haven’t said before. The place he’s in he put himself in and no matter what your mother said to you today, it isn’t on you.”

“What else aren’t you telling me?”

Shit.

Damn.

“Evie—”

“I know he knows the bag is gone, Danny. Mom made that clear. And I figure it was you that told him when you went to go see him. How was he? Was he freaked?”

He gave it to her straight.

“Yes. And, baby, what I don’t wanna say, what I told him I’d tell you, but I’ve been struggling with telling you is, he didn’t give a thought to you. Even knowing he’d landed you in shit, he was all about him.”

She looked down to the frying bacon.

Fuck.

Her fucking family.

He hopped off the counter, opened a drawer, grabbed a fork and moved in behind her.

He slid one arm around her to hold her to him and used his other hand to shift the bacon so it wouldn’t stick.

“I’ve made a mess of my life, Danny,” she told the bacon.

“Join the club, Evie,” he said into her ear.

“I’m sorry you think your life is a mess,” she whispered.

“And I’m sorry yours is a mess,” he replied. “Though I’ll note, strongly, it’s not of your making.”

“How do you…?” she didn’t finish.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He wanted to push.

He didn’t push.

He just moved bacon around in a skillet.

“After dinner, do you mind if I blow off the movie to go through the boxes Lottie and Ava brought around?” she asked.

“Whatever you want, baby,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, reached out and took the fork from his hand. “I got it from here.”

He did the only thing he felt it was cool to do in that moment.

He pressed his hand against her stomach and his jaw against the side of her head.

Then he let her go and went to the fridge, saying, “I won’t offer you a beer.”

She shot him a grin. It was small, but it was real.

“What do you drink?” he asked.

“Cold-pressed juice.”

She was right there with him, boneless wing for boneless wing.

So he was surprised by her answer.

“Really?”

“No.” Her smile was now bigger. “You think I’d pay six bucks for a juice?”

He did not.

He wanted there to be a time when she wouldn’t think too much about that.

But now she did.

“Though I’ve treated myself on occasion and they’re yummy,” she muttered.

“You had beer at your pad,” he noted.

“No, I had ale at my pad,” she corrected him. “I drink ale. I drink stout. I drink craft beer where the operative word is ‘craft,’ as in craftsmanship went into the making of that beverage, which is far elevated from just beer.”

“So, you’re a beer snob,” he teased.

“Absolutely,” she said without shame.

He made a mental note to buy some decent beer.

This he did while he popped the tab on a Bud and headed back to resume his seat on the counter.

“Don’t think I missed how you lost at shotgunning and wiggled out of Anaconda. Totally watching that your next night off.”

“Can I admit something to you?” she asked.

“No judgment here, Evie, ever,” he answered.

She gave him a long look and he really hoped she saw what he wanted her to see.

“Scary movies freak me out. I don’t sleep great anyway. But a scary movie can mess me up for weeks,” she said. “Even bad ones.”

“I’ll pick something else,” he replied immediately and then went alert when her body jolted.

They were having another Toothpaste Moment. He saw it.

“You’re a pushover, Daniel Magnusson,” she said softly.

She totally had no issue with scary movies.

“I’m really not, Evie,” he replied in her same tone. “Not normally.”

Oh yeah.

The way she was looking at him?

They were totally having another Toothpaste Moment.

He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

Quickly.

Then she turned to the bacon.

Chapter Eleven

The Test of Us

Evie

The next morning, I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when I heard it.

I finished quickly, spit, rinsed, wiped and headed out.

Just as I suspected.

Mag was standing at the counter in nothing but his loose shorts that ran long, almost to his knees, and he was beating something in a bowl.

But when I hit the space, he turned to me, his expression telling me he was about to smile and say some good morning–type words, but his body arrested when he clapped eyes on me.

I had to admit, my new sleep set was cute.

Shorts and racer-back cami, ivory with black flowers on them.

But he’d only given my body a cursory glance.

He was staring at my head.

“You’re making breakfast,” I accused.

“Well…yeah.”