Page 14 of Fuse

All Mom’s been told about Angie is that she’s an agent for the Consortium who went rogue after the bastards supposedly killed Tyce—and that’s the way it’s going to stay. Especially now. No need to muddle this situation by lobbing a wad of TMI in the form of Angelique’s “extended” involvement in my past.

Because right now, the situation’s muddled enough as it is.

Chapter Four

Emma

Will any of this ever stop being such a mess?

The question bashes the inside of my brain like an NBA team training for the championship—weirdly appropriate, since I’m pounding out a great acoustic support track by jerking doors, slamming drawers, and stomping around our arena of a kitchen.

The din is easy to get away with, since everyone has filtered out to the backyard, where Anya’s setting out plates of snacks and Chase is opening wine. I volunteered to stay in here and set up the buffet-style brunch foods—a collection of salads, sandwiches, finger foods, and desserts easily capable of feeding that basketball team five times over—in hopes of dealing with all my weirdness about this morning in a more constructive way than a classic Emma retreat-and-hide. So far, so good.

Sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m not still tempted.

Especially as I swing around, a bowl of Greek salad in one hand and a tray of stuffed peppers in the other, to confront a pair of insightful golden eyes ensconced in a petite, perceptive face. Especially as my I’m-so-busy act is shot to hell before I can fake five seconds of it. And especially as Joany pops up to park herself on one of the high barstools along the other side of the granite island.

“Hey.” I force out the breezy tone while peeling back the plastic wrap from the peppers.

“Hey yourself.” Her tone is light but meaningful, doubling my shock that she’s a savvy stock analyst instead of a high-end psychotherapist. But now that I think about it, the professions are scarily similar.

“Everything going okay out there?” I nod toward the patio. To any outsider, the scene is simply a group of family and friends enjoying an early summer day, not the survivors of a memorial service that was turned into a crazy installment of a superhero summer blockbuster, minus anyone flying or dissolving. But as the cliché goes, the day isn’t over yet…

And I find clichés fascinating…why?

“Oh, just peaches and roses.” Joany’s smile is a combination of both, with her high cheekbones evoking the fruit and her stunning skin tone borrowing from the flower. With her silk blouse and tailored palazzo pants completing the scenario of Southern belle chic, I’m forced to remember that she’s probably readying to drop a zinger of a follow-up to that. “But it’s definitely not the case in here, is it?”

Like that one.

Swoosh. Two points.

I puff out my cheeks and then release the air on a big whoosh. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“Why waste time?” She rests her elbows on the bar and then turns her hands upside down, cupping one inside the other. It’s like a finger steeple, only slightly less intimidating. “Especially when someone I care deeply about has a crap day thrown at them.”

I almost think of taking a lap around that proverbial bush myself and pretend she’s talking about Chase instead of me, but as the woman has perfectly said, why waste time. “Thanks,” I murmur. “I think you’re pretty awesome too.” And I mean every syllable. As future sisters-in-law go, I’ve hit the jackpot, but that still doesn’t mean I want to spill to her about Angelique’s true impact on Reece’s life. “But honestly, the tale is long and messy and—”

“Isn’t this a fun conversation to walk in on.” The comment comes from the last person, besides maybe Angie, that I want to see strolling in right now. But as Lydia parks herself on a chair next to Joany, I’m almost tempted to laugh. The pair of them are like Buffy and Willow rebooted, ready to kick ass and take names—only with cheerleading uniforms that would have to be emblazoned with Spill it all now, bitch.

Crap, crap, crap.

“What?” I volley, circling back for the next load out of the fridge. I palm the bottom of the pan with the Southwestern chili pie I made last night while adding, “You have anything long and messy you’d like to discuss, sister of mine?”

“Ew.” ’Dia’s retort already conveys her grimace, so I don’t look away while punching in the preheat number for the pie.

“Well, this is getting interesting,” Joany chimes. “Good thing I refilled my glass before coming in.”

“Nothing interesting here,” Lydia slings back. “Move along, kids. Nothing interesting at all.”

I pivot back around, ending with arms spread, hands planted, and both brows raised. “Except for the fact that our favorite golden-haired commitment-phobe has all but moved you into his place?”

My sister winces again. Then turns nearly as magenta as her wine while waving her free hand around like a twerking butterfly. “Temporarily,” she stresses. “Very temporarily. And only because of everything that went down in Paris. He’s still freaked about it all and just wants—”

I cut her off with a yap as soon as her words really sink in. Though I cushion the blow with an apologetic wince, I ask, “Freaked out? Sawyer? Still?”

Legitimate queries. Sawyer can’t talk about a lot of his past because he’d actually have to kill us if he did, which has always made me assume that his Team Bolt duties are softballs and popcorn by comparison—but the pensive look on my sister’s face is far from a Saturday ballgame face.

“I know,” ’Dia finally mutters. “I don’t understand it either.”