PATRICK
Declan Connelly entered the kitchen,took one look at Patrick’s stained shirt, and poured himself a glass of water before calmly saying, “You aware you're wearing someone’s coffee?”
“Yeah,” Patrick answered, opening the fridge. “Mine.” The thought made him smile for some strange reason.
Patrick moved things around in the refrigerator, then grabbed one of the neatly labeled takeout containers from among the dozen or so on the shelves. There were perks to having a mother who was the executive chef at the Celtic Goddess.
“And you haven't changed because…”
Patrick removed the lid and popped the container into the microwave. “Because I have to change soon for my shift at the pub anyway. Why dirty another shirt if I don’t have to?”
Declan made a gruff noise of agreement in the back of his throat.
The golden rays of the late afternoon sun poured through the curtainless windows, painting the outdated kitchen in a more flattering glow than stark daylight did. Their fixer-upper needed a lot of work, but he and his cousins had made good progress in the few months they’d lived here.
When the microwave dinged, Patrick grabbed his dinner and sat down at the scarred wooden table. Like the old Victorian house itself, the table had seen better days, but it was functional and sturdy.
Garrett was working a job across town. Wade had the cemetery's south section to deal with before dark. It was just Patrick and Declan at this hour, which meant an easy, companionable quiet that neither man felt compelled to fill.
At least, not usually.
Today, Declan dropped into the chair across from him. He had the look he sometimes got—not suspicious, just attentive. Like something was different, but he hadn’t quite figured out what yet.
“Moving job go okay today?” Declan asked.
“Fine. It was a couple in their seventies relocating to be near their daughter. Light load, easy drive.” Patrick grinned between bites. “The husband offered me a twenty-dollar tip. The wife slipped me a fifty.”
Declan snorted, but womendidtend to tip much better than men.
He tilted his chin toward Patrick’s chest. “Tell me more about that.”
There was a reason Patrick had approached his slightly older cousin first when he’d come up with the idea of a private investigation and security firm. Declan, a Ranger like his father, instinctively knew when someone was withholding information.
“I stopped at the café on the way back.”
“And?” Declan prompted, then waited patiently. This was another of his more effective traits. He wielded weighted silences as skillfully as others did humor or fear. Patrick had known him long enough to both admire the technique and find it annoying. Either way, his cousin made a hell of an interrogator.
“There was a woman,” Patrick said.
Declan raised an eyebrow.
“Not like that.” He stopped. Started again. “We collided. My fault, technically, but she took the blame upon herself. Very precisely, too.”
He could still smell the coffee in the fabric of his Henley though it had cooled and dried hours ago. He was also aware that he'd had ample opportunity to change and had, for reasons he hadn't examined closely, not done so. Though the laundry excuse he gave Declan was plausible.
“She was—” He searched for the right word. Interesting felt thin. Unusual felt clinical. Pretty was accurate and also somehow completely beside the point. “Different,” he finished, which wasn't right either, but was the closest he was going to get.
Declan set down his glass. “Different how?”
“Just… different.” Patrick frowned at his meal. She hadn’t smiled at him or flirted. Hadn’t even looked at him with the flare of feminine interest he was accustomed to.
Declan's expression shifted in a way that, on someone else, would have constituted a smile. “She blew you off? Didn’t succumb immediately to your charms? How refreshing.”
“I’m serious, man.”
“So, shedidn’ttell you to fuck off?”
“Not exactly. She wasn't rude. She wasn't cold. She just—” He made a gesture that didn't fully communicate what he meant. “Dismissed me, I guess. Like I was no more interesting than the décor.”