distinct sensation of Josh’s ability tugged along my skin, and I was pulled out of Tyler’s arms and straight into Josh’s.
A burst of joyful laughter bubbled out of me. Josh’s hugs were always a little too firm—as if he thought I’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tightly enough—but I loved them.
After a barely there kiss, he whispered “Happy birthday” against my lips and slowly, reluctantly released me.
I looked over his shoulder. Alec stood slightly apart from the group, his hands in his pockets, his bright eyes watching. His strong features were relaxed—not frowning or scowling—as he waited patiently.
He’d spent a long time waiting for me.
He extended his hand, and I stepped forward and took it. As he pulled me to him, a little pang of excited nervousness shot down my spine. Would he kiss me tenderly and whisper in that honey voice? Would he bruise my lips with his intensity? I never knew.
It turned out to be a combination of the two. His sexy smirk appeared, and my honey-voiced stranger told me, “Happy birthday, Evie.” He pulled me against his chest and threaded his hand into the back of my hair. Then Alec Zacarias, Master of Pain himself, kissed me silly. I sighed, my arms brushing against the prickles of his closely cropped hair.
Someone cleared their throat. I froze and extracted myself from Alec’s grip, taking a moment to catch my breath before turning back to the rest of my Bond and Uncle Lucian.
Ethan clapped his hands, the booming sound bouncing off the walls. “OK. Pancakes for breakfast?”
“Actually,” I said, and they all pulled up short, “I have plans.”
“Plans?” Tyler arched a brow, but Josh’s eyes flew to the kind man in the wheelchair, and his lips turned up in a smile.
“Yeah. I promise I’ll spend the day with you guys, but Uncle Lucian is taking me out for breakfast. Just the two of us.”
I couldn’t stop the grin. I hadn’t intended to call him Uncle Lucian, but now that it was out there, it felt right. If things had turned out differently, I may have grown up calling him Dad, maybe never even knowing he wasn’t my birth father. But that title didn’t sit right. Calling him what the guys did felt natural.
I ducked my head to hide my goofy grin and made my way back upstairs before anyone could say anything.
Twenty minutes later, my hair was brushed, and I was dressed in jeans and a long, thick cardigan, an oversized scarf wrapped around my neck to ward off the cold. Lucian’s driver chauffeured us—in a brand-new, wheelchair-friendly vehicle—to the little café that made the best coffee in town. The waiter seated us at a corner table and handed us some menus.
Two agents sat at a nearby table, but the rest of the security detail remained outside.
After perusing for only a few seconds, Lucian dropped the menu back on the table. “Pancakes,” he breathed sadly. I frowned. “Maybe we should’ve stayed at home, had Ethan make you pancakes. I’m sorry . . . I forgot . . . She kept it going, right? She mentioned it several times, that she still made pancakes for you every year and . . .”
“Yes, she kept it going.” I reached out and covered his hand with mine. “You know, come to think of it, I’ve never missed a year. Even last year, when I was in foster care with this older couple—Marty and Baz—Marty made me pancakes.” I smiled fondly, reminding myself to send them an email when I got home. “They weren’t Mom’s pancakes, and all it did was make me think harder about the fact that she’s gone, but I appreciated the gesture.”
Lucian opened his mouth to say something just as our waiter walked up to the table.
“Ready to order, folks?”
“I’ll have the pancakes and a latte.” I didn’t hesitate as I handed over my menu.
“I’ll have the same.” Lucian nodded. “But make mine an English breakfast tea, milk on the side.”
The waiter took our menus and moved off.
I made a disgusted face. “English breakfast tea?”
Lucian laughed. “What? I lived in London for years. I picked up some habits. It’s pretty good when the tea is high quality.”
“I never took you for a tea snob,” I teased.
“Look who’s talking, miss ‘fair-trade, organic espresso or nothing.’”
“At least you don’t make your tea in the microwave,” I conceded as we both cringed. America was the only country I’d lived in where the concept of a kettle was foreign.