Page 128 of Smith

Cash was lounging in an Adirondack chair to my left. The other three chairs had just been vacated by Theo, Easton, and Nebraska when they went inside to get fresh beers.

I needed to add a fridge to my outdoor kitchen plan.

“About the house?”

“Yeah, about the house,” Jonas clarified. “It’s perfect. No remodel necessary.”

He was correct, the house was perfect. When we’d viewed it, Aria had frowned during the entire walk-through. It was cute, it was funny, it was Aria.

“She’ll find something.”

“Not sure what she’s gonna find in your pristine, mini-mansion,” Cash joined in.

The house wasn’t a mini-mansion. It was big, bigger than we needed at five bedrooms and an office downstairs. But the dining area was huge. The day we’d signed the offer, Aria had bought a dining table that sat twelve. There was also a large space off the kitchen for a table. The living room could fit three couches. It had two with three cool-as-shit chairs that as a man I never would’ve bought, but Aria had and they fit great.

Aria sold her house fully furnished, with the exception of her bed that now occupied one of the four extra rooms. I donated most of my shit, keeping only my bedroom furniture which wasn’t shit. That was in another of the bedrooms. My TV was in the living room.

Everything else was new.

It was ours.

Nothing in the house needed fixing, updating, or renovating. But it did need decorating and there was a lot of house to decorate.

Besides…

“She closes on a new flip in a week.”

Easton and Theo came back out, sans Nebraska. I glanced back to the house. Through the huge windows, I could see the kitchen and living room. I scanned the crowd until I found who I was looking for.

Aria.

Jesus, beautiful.

Totally in her element, entertaining our family.

Smiling, happy, holding a beer, talking with Ivy, Kira, and Nebraska.

The rest of the crew talking among themselves. Gathered around the huge table covered in food.

Smiling, happy, having a good time.

In our home.

Home.

A home Aria had given me.

“Far cry from our once-a-year, break the rules meet-up,” Easton said, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Good times,” Jonas added.

“The fucking best,” Cash put in.

Jonas was right, those meets-up were good times. Once a year, we broke protocol, washed off the filthy we’d covered ourselves in to blend in with the scumbags we’d been tasked to take down, and we spent a week together. Brothers coming together, getting much needed R and R.

But Cash was wrong. They weren’t the best.

This was the best.

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