Axl had inherited a good deal from his father. Not just the dark hair turned silver early, but also his height, his build and his blue eyes.
His mom moved away from Hattie and immediately Hattie edged closer to Axl.
So close, her shoulder brushed his.
He slid his arm around her waist.
“My God, look at you,” Sylas Pantera said to Hattie. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing?”
Every fiber of muscle in Axl’s body strung tight.
She wasn’t a fucking pretty fucking little fucking thing.
Fuck.
Right off the bat, reductive language to put Hattie in her place.
So yeah.
It was going to be one of those nights.
Fuck.
“Mr. Pantera,” Hattie forged in, not leaving Axl’s side but lifting her hand Sylas’s way.
His dad waved in front of himself, booming, “No, no, no. Sylas. Call me Sylas.”
Then he took her by the shoulders, pulled her from Axl’s hold and bent down to kiss her cheek.
He let her go and Axl instantly claimed her again.
“Kid,” Sylas greeted him.
“Dad,” Axl replied.
“You look fit,” Sylas stated.
“You do too,” Axl returned.
“Work good?”
“The usual.”
His father’s mouth tightened.
Work was a thorny subject, mostly because his dad didn’t exactly know what Axl did, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know exactly what that entailed because Axl couldn’t tell him.
And Sylas didn’t like not knowing things.
So much so, there was a likelihood that his father had Hawk’s operations investigated. He had an in-house investigator, and as named partner, his father wouldn’t hesitate to use firm resources as he saw fit.
But even if he did, there was only so much to be discovered.
And Sylas would know just how much was not.
“I guess that’s good,” Sylas said tightly. “Now, are we going to stand in the kitchen all night, or am I making cocktails?”
“I could use a cocktail, darling,” his mom put in.
“Always,” Sylas returned, with an ogle to Hattie and then a dismissive, “It’s martini time.”
Rachel swayed back an inch at the not-so-veiled insult couched in an inference his mother had a problem with alcohol.
Something, to Axl’s knowledge, she did not have.
Axl fought punching his father in the throat.
Hattie forged into the breach.
“I love martinis too, Rachel. Are you vodka or gin?”
“She’s both if it has an alcohol content,” Sylas answered for his wife.
And there it was again.
What the fuck?
Dots of pink hit Rachel’s cheeks, she didn’t quite hide the side eye she shot at her husband, and Hattie’s fingers curled over Axl’s at her waist.
That was when he realized how hard they were digging in.
He released the pressure and dropped his head to look at her.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be,” she whispered back, keeping her fingers around his.
“What’s this?” Sylas asked.
“Nothing,” Axl said shortly. “I could use a martini too.”
Sylas looked to Hattie and jerked a thumb at Axl. “Gotta get this kid to start drinking scotch. Now, that’s a man’s drink.”
Hattie, doing her best to defuse the tension, shot him a bright, playful smile. “Well, Sylas, James Bond drinks martinis and I’m relatively sure everyone thinks he’s pretty danged manly.”
“Yes, but he’s fictional,” Sylas parried.
And then Hattie did something brilliant.
She capitulated immediately, stating “Touché,” in a way she made it clear she couldn’t give fewer fucks about what Sylas thought was a manly drink, so she certainly wasn’t going to argue about it.
Which brought Sylas up short, physically.
His body jerked with it.
Done with him, Hattie looked to his mom.
“Rachel, this kitchen. It’s amazing. I hope we have time tonight for a tour of your home.”
“How about we do that now while Sylas is making our martinis?” Rachel invited. His mom looked to his dad. “And mine will be vodka, Sylas. Like it always is.”
Hattie, looking up at Axl, began, “Oh, I don’t—”
She didn’t want to leave him with his father.
“Go, honey,” he encouraged. “Vodka or gin?”
“Vodka.”
“Olive or a twist?”
“Either,” she replied, squeezing his hand and then smiling gamely at his mom as she let him go and moved out of the curve of his arm.
Axl stuck close in order to say hello while Rachel introduced Hattie to Lisa.
Then the women took off and Axl followed his dad into the library, which was where he kept their drinks cabinet, so it was where they did a lot of their entertaining.
This so he could thrill people with his massive book collection that covered the floor-to-ceiling shelves on all the walls, impress with his baseball signed by Johnny Bench or bask in the gasps when people noticed his Chihuly Persian set.
“You really want a martini?” Sylas asked, picking up the shaker.
“I really want a martini. Vodka. Olive. Dirty. Same for Hattie.”
His dad prepped to mix, but after he had the ice in, the olive juice, he reached to the vodka and looked to Axl. “You didn’t know which she preferred.”
“I don’t know if she likes celery or how she feels about the polar ice caps melting either. We haven’t been married for five years. But I’ll find out.”