The house wasn’t new, as in a new build.
It was an old bungalow in Wash Park that had a utility/mud room, a great kitchen, a dining nook, a groovy living room with big windows, a decent master, guest room, and Mag’s favorite part, a finished basement.
They hadn’t been there long.
And he was already drowning in Boho.
He didn’t give a fuck.
It made Evie happy to OD on Anthropologie, Urban Outfitters, and vintage shops.
It also gave him something to give her shit about.
And he wouldn’t tell her this (or at least he wouldn’t until the time was right), but he actually liked it.
Outside the finished basement, which she’d declared his “domain” (and she’d used the word “domain,” such a cute fucking dork), the kitchen was the best room in the house.
Wild patterned tile as a backsplash. Taupe-gray cabinets. Wood countertops and open shelves.
And lots of freaking plants (nearly all of them given to them by Ryn).
He’d balked when Evie had told him she wanted to buy a mint green SMEG fridge to pick up the mint green color the base of the island was painted.
In the end, though, he’d given in.
He’d made a habit of doing that when it came to Evie.
He didn’t give a fuck about that either.
“What are you making?” she asked, eyes big and focused on the tray on the island.
“Cheesy Bacon Knots,” he answered.
“Did I do something amazing I’m not aware of to earn this fantasticness?” she asked.
Fantasticness.
His woman was not only a dork, she was a nerd and a goof.
Certified for all.
And perfect for him.
“That blowjob this morning pretty much rocked,” he told her.
He saw her lips turn up as she dumped her book bag on a stool by the entryway to the utility before she wandered to the island, her gaze now resting on him, doing all of this saying, “If it was that, I’d weigh thirty pounds more than I do.”
She wasn’t wrong about that.
She dug sucking him off.
And he seriously dug that she did and how she did it.
That said, he didn’t cook his gratitude for her.
Strike that.
He did.
He made her breakfast every morning.
Something he did that morning after the phenomenal blowjob she gave him.
But it was usually Evie who made their dinner.
“Hawk’s got a thing,” he shared.
She put her hands on the island, her eyes still aimed at him.
Damn, she was pretty.
He’d never get used to it, how pretty his girl was.
He dug that too.
“A thing?” she asked.
“We do charity shit. It’s part of our responsibilities. We have a certain number of hours we need to do a year as a team. We get together and pick what we do, commit to it, then do it. Usually, it’s runs to fundraise. Five Ks. Marathons. We adopted a highway once. That sucked, but it was important work to do. Someone got wind of this, approached Hawk, they had a sit-down, and now me and Boone, Axl, and Aug are doing a charity cookbook.”
Now she wasn’t just looking at him.
She was blinking at him.
Rapidly.
“Sorry?” she asked.
“Some chick named Kristen Ashley, who’s a writer, but she also raises money for women’s charities, approached Hawk about doing a fundraising thing. Hawk told her the guys cook. She came up with the idea. Now Hawk wants us to give her recipes so she can compile them with a chef friend of hers named Suzanne Johnson, who’s going to test-kitchen them. If the recipes work, they’ll pull it together, sell the books, and raise money for some women’s charities.”
“That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard,” Evie blurted.
Mag started laughing.
“Why is the name ‘Kristen Ashley’ familiar?” she asked when he quit laughing.
“That’s what I thought,” he muttered, though it wasn’t an answer because he couldn’t put his finger on it, but every time he thought about it, before he could do something to figure it out, something else came up.
“I mean, how would she know that Hawk expected this of you guys?” Evie pressed.
Another good question he had no answer to.
Then again, his boss was far from an open book. Who knew who the man knew?
“No clue,” he answered.
“Did you look her up?”
He shrugged. “Haven’t had the time.”
She headed to her book bag, probably to grab her tablet or phone in order to research the name.
That was Evie.
She didn’t wonder about shit for long.
If she had a question, out came a laptop or her phone and she was tapping shit in to find the answer.
It came with having a mind like hers.
She was a genius, that was also certified (and not a joke), and in the time they’d had together, he’d found she just couldn’t know enough.
About anything.
He dug that about her too.
Big time.
“Doesn’t matter, babe,” he told her. “We’re under orders.”
That stopped her progress and she turned to him.
“Under orders?”
Mag nodded.
“You, and your commando brothers, are under orders to create recipes?” she went on.
