22. Lucy #2
“I am four minutes early,” I teased.
“And still, we’re all here before you,” Freya chortled, already reaching for the empty chair beside her. “Sit down.”
Lo turned toward me, and her expression softened with that particular warmth that always made something in me loosen before I had granted it permission. “Hi, sugar.”
The tenderness of it slipped in before I could brace against it. It was only Lo. Only brunch. Only her sitting there with one knee crossed over the other, wrapped in softness and perfume and the kind of affection that did not ask to be earned first.
Still, after last night, after Marion’s arms and Ruth’s fussing and the sudden ache of being remembered by people I had tried very hard not to miss, Lo’s voice felt like a much-needed hug.
Warm air wrapped around me immediately, carrying coffee, cinnamon, toasted bread, butter, and the faint bright sweetness of oranges from the mimosa pitcher.
Beyond the clear igloo walls, Northbend spread below us in winter layers, brick buildings capped with snow, rooftop vents breathing steam into the pale sky, Talon Arena sitting several blocks away like it had been placed there specifically to test my emotional discipline.
The rooftop igloos glowed across the terrace like lanterns. Each one held its own small world of candlelight, blankets, low tables, and people pretending they had not paid extra for the privilege of eating brunch in a heated snow globe.
Arlo had done this. Of course he had. My little brother had taken an abandoned warehouse and turned it into one of the warmest places in Northbend, because apparently loving people through food, heat, and stubborn attention to detail ran in the family whether either of us wanted to admit it or not.
Freya patted the seat beside her again. “Come on. Bea is about to eat the breadbasket out of spite.”
I shrugged out of my coat and hung it over the back of the chair. Before I could sit, Freya leaned over and dragged a thick cream blanket across my lap. I looked down at it. Then at her. “Thank you.”
“Welcome,” she mouthed more than said with a subtle wink. “I know you.”
The table looked like Arlo had decided restraint was for other families.
Lemon ricotta pancakes sat beneath a drift of berries.
A cast-iron bowl of roasted potatoes steamed near Freya’s elbow.
There were pastries, sourdough toast, eggs Benedict, a small skillet of tomato sauce and baked eggs, and the whipped goat cheese avocado toast that had apparently caused the entire operation.
Bea had already deconstructed hers. One poached egg rested alone on a side plate like it was awaiting trial.
I pointed at it. “Is that the defendant?”
“Yes,” Bea said.
Lo leaned toward me slightly. Her perfume reached me first, something soft and expensive with vanilla under it. “We’re hoping for a plea deal.”
“The sentence should be immediate removal,” Bea said.
Freya lifted her mimosa. “I offered to eat it.”
“You offered to destroy evidence.”
“I’m generous that way.”
A server opened the igloo door and stepped inside with a tray balanced in one hand. Cold air swept in behind her, lifting the edge of Lo’s silk scarf and making the candles shiver in their glass holders.
She set a tall glass in front of me. Dark coffee. Whipped cream. Nutmeg.
I frowned. “I didn’t order this.”
“Irish coffee,” the server giggled with a smile. “From Arlo.”
Bea looked at my drink, then down at her tea. “I’m being punished.”
“You’re growing a person,” Freya teased. “Drink your leaves.”
Bea gave her a flat look.
The server placed a small plate in the center of the table. Four miniature cinnamon rolls sat beneath a glossy layer of cream-cheese glaze.
Lo’s eyes brightened. “Oh, he does love me.”
“He loves all of us,” Freya sang.
“He tolerates all of you,” I corrected. “He loves Lo.”
Lo looked pleased. “As he should.”
The server smiled like she knew better than to become involved and slipped back out onto the rooftop.
I wrapped both hands around the warm glass, letting heat sink into my fingers. The whiskey rose beneath the coffee, sharp and familiar, and I knew without tasting it that Arlo had made it stronger than usual.
Bea watched me over the rim of her teacup.
“No,” I said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Lo selected a cinnamon roll with delicate precision. “What are we not discussing?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Buzz,” Bea said at the exact same time.
I turned my head slowly toward her. Bea took a bite of croissant and looked completely unrepentant.
Lo paused with the cinnamon roll halfway to her plate. “Ty?”
“No,” I said again.
Freya’s grin widened. “Oh, definitely Ty.”
Lo looked between the three of us, her expression shifting from curious to delighted with alarming speed. “What did that boy do now?”
“Nothing,” I groaned.
“He called her Shortcake,” He called her Shortcake,” Bea interjected, delight bright in her eyes.
“Oh,” Lo said. Very slowly, she lowered the cinnamon roll to her plate.
I closed my eyes.
Freya made a small sound of satisfaction. “See? Even Lo understands the significance.”
“I understand many things,” Lo said, leaning back in her chair. Her mouth twitched. “But I will admit, I did not expect to be gifted that one before I finished my first cinnamon roll.”
“It is not a gift,” I snapped.
“It feels like a gift to me,” Bea replied.
Lo turned toward me fully, one elbow resting lightly against the arm of her chair. “Shortcake?”
I reached for my Irish coffee. “He used to call me that in high school. It was annoying then. It is annoying now. That is the entire story.”
Bea dipped a piece of toast into the whipped goat cheese. “That was a very polished statement.”
“Thank you.”
“It sounded rehearsed,” Bea added.
“It did,” Freya said.
Lo’s eyes warmed with mischief. “Sugar, I’ve heard congressional testimony with more emotional availability.”
I looked at her. “You are supposed to be the mature one.”
“Absolutely not. I am the best dressed one.”
Bea nearly choked on her tea.
Outside, snow drifted lazily past the igloo walls, softening the view of the neighboring rooftops. Inside, Bea’s laughter blended with Freya’s, the heater hummed near my boots, and Lo’s cinnamon roll left a faint smear of icing on the edge of her plate.
It should have been too much. The teasing. The attention. The way all three of them had turned toward the thing I most wanted to tuck into a drawer and lock.
Instead, it felt irritatingly safe.
“So,” Freya said, settling deeper into the cushions. “At what point during the event did this happen?”
“Near the end,” Bea answered before I could stop her. “He had just done the thing with Niko.”
Lo’s face softened. “I heard about that. Ezra told me.”
“Of course he did,” I muttered.
“He was proud of the event,” Lo said gently. “And of you.”
My fingers tightened around the glass. I cleared my throat. “The event went well.”
“It did,” Bea remarked, and this time her teasing eased into something warmer. “You ran it beautifully.”
“Bea, you built most of it.”
“And Charlotte tried to bury it in a shallow grave,” Freya said.
Bea pointed her fork at her. “Accurate.”
“You still led it,” Lo said.
I looked down at the blanket over my lap. “Thank you.”
Freya, mercifully, stole another potato and turned the room brighter again. “Back to Buzz emotionally collapsing.”
“I hate it here.”
“No, you don’t,” Bea said.
“I could.”
“You won’t,” Freya replied. “Arlo has amazing roasted potatoes.”
Lo smiled at me. “And cinnamon rolls.”
“And emotional harassment,” I added.
“That’s complimentary,” Freya said.
The igloo door opened again before I could answer.
Arlo stepped inside carrying two plates along one forearm and a fresh teapot in his other hand.
He wore dark jeans, boots, and a charcoal henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. A black apron was tied at his waist, and his hair looked like he had already run one hand through it too many times. Snow clung to one shoulder. “Morning.”
“You already ordered my Irish coffee,” I said, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Arlo shrugged like it wasn't worth mentioning. “You were going to order it anyway.”
“You don't know that.”
He gave me a look.
I sighed. “Fine. You absolutely know that.”
“Thought you deserved to start brunch the right way.”
Warmth settled quietly in my chest. “Thanks.”
He reached over and squeezed my shoulder once as he passed. “Always.”
Lo brightened. “There’s my handsome boy.”
Arlo’s whole face softened instantly. “Hi, Lo.”
He leaned down to kiss her cheek. She caught his jaw in one hand for half a second, the gesture so familiar and maternal that something in my chest went quiet.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Busy.” He set one plate in front of Bea. “Eggs fully cooked through. No suspicious yolk activity.”
Bea looked down at the replacement plate with open relief. “I love you.”
“I know. It’s good for business.”
Freya leaned forward. “What about me?”
Arlo set the second plate in front of her. “Extra potatoes.”
It was easy to forget, watching him move through the restaurant with plates in his hands and a towel over his shoulder, that he was only twenty-four.
North Line made him seem older. Or maybe responsibility did.
He looked solid in a way he rarely had as a teenager, rooted into the place he had built with his own stubborn hands.
He checked the heater. Adjusted the teapot closer to Lo. Moved the mimosa pitcher away from Bea with the quiet confidence of someone who valued his life.
Arlo’s gaze slid to me. “Everything good?” There was a question beneath it. Not about the food. Not about the heat. About last night. About the arena. About every version of me he could read before I had decided whether I wanted to be read.
“Everything’s good,” I said.
His eyes held mine for one extra second. Then he nodded, accepting the answer for now.
That was one of the ways Arlo loved me. He pushed until he knew pushing would make me disappear, then pretended he had only stopped by to deliver breakfast.