Page 47 of Brox Boar

“Give me that,” he says.

She hands it over, a fraction hesitant, then lets him take it. He drops it on one of the stools around the island and flips on a pendant light above it. Warm light spills over the marble surface, illuminating the empty counter, and the stools.

I step around the coffee table and walk across to them. Brox already has the fridge open. He peers inside, grimaces.

“Nothing decent,” he mutters.

“Kitchen downstairs?” I ask.

“The chefs went home an hour ago.” He pushes the fridge shut and checks the time on his watch. “It’s morning. They start prep at midday.”

I pause to think through all our options. We have the resources to have a full buffet sent from anywhere in the city at any hour if I make one call. The urge to snap my fingers and solve this with money scratches at me.

Then Lana leans against the counter, dips her head a little. The move is small. It still sends a little shot of urgency through me.

“Pizza,” I decide. “Fastest option.”

She lifts her head, studying me.

“You want pizza?” I ask. “Tell me what you want on it.”

“You,” she says first. “Rio second.”

“That’s not a topping,” I reply dryly.

Her mouth curves reluctantly.

“Anything,” she answers after a second. “I’m not picky.”

“So if I order pineapple with anchovies and extra olives, you’ll eat it?” I push.

She wrinkles her nose. “You’re a monster.”

“There we go,” I say. “Preferences.”

Brox exhales, amused, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening.

“Get her pepperoni,” he suggests. “Extra cheese.”

“And something green,” Lana adds.

I pull my cell out, tap the speed-dial for a place that owes us favors. They answer on the second ring, no questions asked when they hear my name.

“Two large,” I say. “Pepperoni, extra cheese, and throw something with vegetables in the box. Deliver to the usual entrance. Ten minutes.”

They say yes. I end the call.

“Sit,” I tell her, nodding toward the stool. “You’re swaying.”

“I’m not swaying,” she mutters, but she sits.

Her legs dangle a little before she hooks her feet on the bar at the base of the stool. She rubs her hands together slowly, spreading warmth into the fingers. Her head tips forward, eyes closing for a second.

She could fall asleep right here, face down on the counter.

I step behind her, let my hands rest lightly on her shoulders. Her muscles are hard knots under my fingers. When I squeeze, she groans quietly.

“Did you do what we asked?” Brox asks.