The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(15)

“Vic?”

“Priya.”

She grins and shakes the ponytail kink from her hair. “She’s a good kid.”

“Need anything?”

“Nah, should be good.”

I’ve already brushed my teeth and scrubbed off my makeup, so I crawl in next to Eddison, flick out the lights, and shift until I’ve found a comfortable position. Several minutes later, he turns onto his side. “We should both get that shirt,” he says.

“I have that shirt.”

“Really?”

“The mothers gave it to me for my birthday a few years back. I wear it running.”

“I need that shirt.”

“You don’t need that shirt.”

“But—”

“You have never seen you in a bar. You don’t need that shirt.”

The sound of giggling seeps through the closed door, followed by a thump and more giggling, which I’m pretty sure was Sterling laughing herself off the couch.

“I always forget the door is that thin,” Eddison sighs.

“I don’t.”

The sheets rustle as he brings up one leg, plants his foot firmly against my ass, and shoves me off the bed.

Sterling’s giggling gains some hiccups.

The flights out to California pass mostly in a stupor of sleepiness and paperwork, as much as we can manage on our tiny trays, at any rate. The three-day conference is focused on making sure local police departments know when and how they can avail themselves of federal resources, and which agency they should call for which kinds of problems. In between presentations, there’s a lot of reassuring worried or belligerent local cops from across the country and shit-talking with reps from other agencies. It’s the closest thing to a working vacation we’ll ever have.

We get back to Eddison’s apartment a little past three on Sunday morning, because God knows the Bureau isn’t going to pay for hotel rooms one more night than absolutely necessary, and Eddison ends up on the couch this time. There may have been some collapsing involved, the inevitable crash that comes of cramming him full of sugar on the second half of the second flight to make sure he was hyper enough to drive us safely back from the airport. Between the two of us, Sterling and I manage to strip him down to boxers and undershirt and get him tucked into the couch in a way that should keep him from falling off but will probably confuse him in the morning.

“Go on in,” I tell Sterling, hip checking her toward the bedroom. “I just have to dig clothes out.”

After she closes the door to change, Eddison makes a remarkable recovery and looks up at me. “You’ve got her?”

“I’ve got her.”

Because today was supposed to be Eliza Sterling’s wedding day, and being a team—being family—means she’ll be lucky to piss in peace because we’re not leaving her alone. I turn off her personal cell and switch her work cell to silent, leaving both with Eddison. Having a grumpy bastard screen calls is remarkably effective, really. After changing into pajamas, I brush my teeth and scrub off my makeup at the kitchen sink, then check the locks and turn off all the lights on my way into the bedroom.

Sterling sits on the bed, back in her shirt and leggings with her hair fluffed all around her, holding Eddison’s alarm clock in her lap, with a stricken expression on her face. The soft click of the door closing behind me makes her look up, and her eyes are glassy with tears. “I thought today was still yesterday,” she whispers.

Working in the Bureau—or any law enforcement, really—has a cost. For Sterling, the chance to advance and join a prestigious team came at the cost of her engagement. From what little she’s said about it, there wasn’t a chance in hell of him following her to Virginia. When she came home bubbling over with news of a promotion, he didn’t understand why she thought she’d be working after they got married.

Even when something’s wrong, the ending of the thing hurts.

Gently prying the clock from her hands, I put it back on the nightstand, flick off the lights, and nudge her under the covers. She doesn’t make any objection when I press up beside her, and while I have the uncomfortable feeling our hair will get knotted together at some point in the night (it’s happened before), I’m not about to move away. Her mother exploded when the engagement was broken, so she can’t go home to Denver for hugs, and while both Jenny and Marlene Hanoverian would be only too happy to mother her as much as she’ll let them, we’re not going to wake them up at three-thirty on a Sunday morning.

So I’m here to give her as many hugs as she needs, and unlike Eddison, I won’t feel a whit self-conscious. And if she happens to cry a couple of times during what’s left of the night . . . well. She’s in pain, and I sure as hell won’t judge her for it.

Late in the morning, we’re both woken up by the smell of bacon frying, and it only takes a few minutes to untangle our hair enough to get out of bed and shuffle out to investigate. Eddison does not cook. Eddison gets bored of anything that takes more attention than toast. But it’s Vic who stands at the stove, giving us a salute with the greasy tongs, while Eddison scowls down at the pile of potatoes and the large grater Vic must have brought with him, because it’s certainly nothing Eddison’s going to bother keeping in his own kitchen.

Sterling gives the guys a sleepy smile, though she’s pale and her eyes are still pink and puffy. “Thanks,” she says softly.