Sneak peek at Grayline Book 2
“If Rachel changes outfits one more time, we’re leaving without her.”
“I heard that!” she calls from upstairs.
Matt doesn’t look up from the glass in his hand. “No, we’re not.”
“You’re right.” I grab a pretzel from the bowl on the kitchen island and toss it into my mouth. “You’ll wait. I’ll leave.”
Bullet glances over from the recliner. “You’d make it to the driveway before she called you back.”
I consider it. “Probably.”
Matt takes a slow sip of bourbon, entirely too comfortable for a man whose wife has been upstairs for nearly forty minutes. “You say that like you’ve ever left this house when Rachel told you not to.”
“I leave all the time.”
“When?”
“Work.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It counts to me.”
Sloane looks up from her phone, one eyebrow lifting. “You spend half your life in Matt’s garage.”
“That’s because he keeps better tools than I do.”
Matt’s mouth twitches.
“And better bourbon,” Bullet adds.
“That too.”
Sloane shakes her head and goes back to scrolling.
She’s perched on the far end of the couch with one leg crossed over the other, already dressed to go out in a black skirt and a top that probably cost more than everything I’m wearing combined. Her dark hair is pulled into one of those complicated braids she somehow makes look effortless.
She fits here in a way most people never do. Always has.
Sloane knew Matt and Rachel before any of us did. Back when they were still kids trying to figure out what they were supposed to become. She was there before the Army, before Grayline, before the rest of us showed up and turned their lives into one long series of classified disasters.
Which means she considers herself entitled to opinions about all of us.
Especially me.
“You know,” I say, “for someone who claims not to like me, you spend a lot of time watching what I do.”
Her eyes stay on her phone. “I watch traffic accidents too. Doesn’t mean I enjoy them.”
Bullet chokes on his beer.
Matt looks down, hiding a grin behind his glass.
I press a hand to my chest. “That’s cold.”
“You’ll recover.”
“I always do.”
“That’s part of the problem.”
There it is.
I lean one hip against the island and study her. “What problem is that?”
Sloane finally looks at me. “The one where you think every woman who smiles at you wants your phone number.”
“They usually do.”
Maeve laughs from the couch before quickly covering it with a cough. Skee glances down at her, but the corner of his mouth moves. Traitors. Every one of them.
“I don’t think that,” I say. Sloane gives me a look. “Fine. I don’t always think that.”
“You flirt with waitresses.”
“They work hard. They deserve encouragement.”
“You flirt with bartenders.”
“Same reason.”
“You flirted with the woman who came to inspect the fire extinguishers at Grayline.”
“She seemed stressed.”
“She was sixty.”
“And?”
Maeve gives up trying not to laugh.
Sloane turns her attention back to her phone. “Exactly.”
I point at her. “You’re making me sound worse than I am.”
“I’m repeating things you’ve done.”
“Without context.”
“What context improves any of that?”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Bullet lifts his beer toward her. “She’s got you there.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Whichever one is funnier.”
“Useful.”
Across the room, Skee shifts his phone in his hand. He’s been pretending not to look at it for the last five minutes. Nobody believes him.
Maeve is curled beside him with her legs tucked beneath her, one hand resting lightly against his thigh. She looks more relaxed than she did when they first arrived, but every few minutes, her gaze drifts toward his screen too.
Their son has been with Maeve’s parents for less than an hour. You’d think they left him in another country. Skee unlocks the phone. Maeve turns her head. He locks it again.
A smile tugs at her mouth. “You can check.”
“I’m not checking.”
“You were absolutely about to.”
“I was looking at the time.”
“There’s a clock on the wall.”
“I don’t trust it.”
Maeve looks at Skee. “Do you want me to ask my mom for another picture?”
“No.” His answer comes too fast. She waits. He exhales through his nose. “Maybe.”
“He’s been gone forty-eight minutes,” Skee says, like that makes his concern perfectly reasonable.
“Forty-nine,” Matt corrects.
Skee looks at him.
Matt shrugs. “I checked.”
Maeve’s expression softens. For all the teasing, none of us are any better.
The kid has been around for only a few weeks, and somehow he’s already rearranged the entire family.
Rachel keeps a pack of diapers in three rooms of the house.
Matt built a bassinet for the living room even though Maeve and Skee don’t live here.
Bullet bought him a stuffed bear that looked suspiciously like it had been chosen after two hours of research.
I’ve already ordered a tiny leather jacket he won’t fit into for at least a year.
Skee doesn’t know about that yet. He’ll complain. Maeve will love it. The baby will wear it. Everyone wins.
“I sent her a message,” Maeve says.
Skee nods once, trying to look unaffected. Her phone buzzes almost immediately. Every person in the room looks over.
Maeve laughs. “You’re all ridiculous.”
“Open it,” Rachel shouts.
“You’re upstairs!”
“I can still hear!”
Maeve taps the screen, and Skee shifts closer before he can stop himself.
She turns the phone so he can see. Whatever is on the screen changes his whole face.
It’s subtle. It always is with Skee. His shoulders loosen.
His eyes soften. Something quiet settles over him that wasn’t there before Maeve came into his life.
I look away before he catches me noticing.
Sloane doesn’t. Her expression softens for half a second before she catches herself and reaches for her drink.
“Is he asleep?” Matt asks.
Maeve nods. “Passed out on my dad’s chest.”
“Good,” Skee says.
Then, after a beat, “Send it to me.”
Maeve leans into him. “I already did.”
His phone buzzes. He checks it immediately.
Bullet grins. “Pathetic.”
Skee doesn’t look up. “You spent twenty minutes picking out a stuffed animal.”
“It was tactical.”
“It had a bow tie.”
“Formal tactical.”
I laugh, and Bullet flips me off.
The sound of footsteps finally comes from the stairs. Rachel appears at the bottom wearing the exact same black dress she had on twenty minutes ago.
I stare at her. “You didn’t change.”
“I changed twice and came back to this one.”
Matt looks at her like she’s the only person in the room. “Worth the wait.”
Rachel smiles.
Sloane makes a quiet gagging sound. “Fifteen years,” she says. “I’ve been watching this for fifteen years.”
“Longer,” Rachel corrects.
“Unfortunately.”
Matt sets down his glass and crosses the room to her, sliding a hand around her waist. “You ready?”
“I’ve been ready.”
We all look at her.
Rachel narrows her eyes. “Not one word.”
I hold up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“That face says otherwise.”
“This is just my face.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Sloane says.
I turn toward her. “You know, one day you’re going to admit you like me.”
“I like you now.” The room goes suspiciously quiet. I blink. Sloane smiles sweetly. “In small doses. With supervision.”
Bullet laughs first. Maeve follows. Even Matt loses it.
I shake my head and reach for my keys on the island. “You’re all terrible.”
“We’re your family,” Rachel says.
“Same thing.”
She steps closer and straightens the collar of my jacket like I’m twelve instead of a grown man who has been shot at for a living.
“You’re driving?”
“I’m always driving.”
“No racing.”
“I don’t race.”
Sloane looks up. “You literally answer to Wheels.”
“That is unrelated.”
“It feels related.”
“I’m a professional.”
“You’ve said that about three different things tonight,” she says.
“And I’ve been right every time.”
“Debatable.”
I grab my keys, rolling them once across my knuckles.
Matt reaches for Rachel’s coat. Maeve stands and smooths her dress while Skee checks his phone one last time. Bullet drains the rest of his beer and sets the bottle on the table.
For one brief second, everyone is moving at once. Talking over each other. Arguing about who is riding with whom. Rachel reminding Matt to lock the back door. Maeve telling Skee their son is fine. Sloane telling me she would rather walk than get into my truck if I planned to drive like an idiot.
Normal. Loud. Ours.
Then someone knocks on the front door.
Rachel glances toward the foyer. "I've got it."
Matt reaches for her coat, handing it over as she passes. Rachel opens the front door.
A woman stands on the porch dressed in dark slacks and a navy blazer, a leather portfolio tucked beneath one arm.
"Good evening," she says with a polite smile. "I'm looking for Raymond Barlow."
Rachel's brows knit together just enough to notice. She glances back into the house. "Ray?"
I look up from where I'm twirling my keys. "Yeah?"
"Someone's here for you."
I frown. "For me?"
Bullet leans back on the couch with a grin. "What'd you do?"
"I didn't do anything."
Skee doesn't even glance up from his phone. "Knew I wasn't the resident felon."
I point at him as I start across the room. "You're literally a hacker."
"Computer specialist."
"That's not better."
Sloane folds her arms. "Why would you use Matt's address for your parking tickets?"
I stop long enough to look at her. "I've never had a parking ticket."
She shrugs. "That feels unlikely."
I shake my head. "I don't know why I bother defending myself."
"You shouldn't," she says. "I've already made up my mind."
A laugh ripples through the room.
Rachel gives us all a look. "Enough."
The room settles immediately. She turns back to the woman. "I'm sorry. Can I ask who's looking for him?"
"I'd really prefer to speak with Mr. Barlow."
Her voice is calm. Professional.
Rachel doesn't move from the doorway. "Can I ask what this is regarding?"
"I'm afraid I can only discuss that with him."
By then I've reached the door. I stop beside Rachel, slipping one hand into my jacket pocket as I look at the woman.
Forties, maybe. Professional. Kind eyes. Not a police officer. Definitely not someone I'd ever seen before.
I offer an easy smile. "Evening, ma'am."