“Canaries?” Shane dropped into his seat and gestured to a nearby waiter. He needed a stiff drink after negotiating the gauntlet of strong-willed women.
“That was a trio of very satisfied pussycats.”
Shane resisted the urge to rub at the spot between his shoulder blades that burned from several sets of female eyes boring into him. “I gave them what they wanted.”
“Don’t you always?”
“It’s what I do.”
Shane flashed a cocky grin, but he didn’t feel any satisfaction.
“So what did they want?” Gabe asked.
“To warn me about Brandee Lawless.”
Gabe’s gaze flickered past Shane. Whatever he saw made his eyes narrow. “Do you need to be warned?”
“Oh hell no.” The waiter set a scotch before him and Shane swallowed a healthy dose of the fiery liquid before continuing. “You know how she and I are. If we were kids she’d knock me down and sit on me.”
“And you’d let her because then she’d be close enough to tickle.”
“Tickle?” Shane stared at his best friend in mock outrage. “Do you not know me at all?”
“We’re talking about you and Brandee as little kids. It was the least offensive thing I could think of that you’d do to her.”
Shane snorted in amusement. “You could have said spank.”
Gabe closed his eyes as if in pain. “Can we get back to Cecelia, Simone and Naomi?”
“They’re just frustrated that Brandee has sided against them and has more influence at the club than they do. They want to rule the world. Or at least our little corner of it.”
On the table, Gabe’s phone chimed, signaling a text. “Damn,” he murmured after reading the screen.
“Bad news?”
“My uncle’s tumor isn’t operable.”
Several weeks ago Gabe’s uncle Dusty had been diagnosed with stage-four brain cancer.
“Aw, Gabe, I’m sorry. That really sucks.”
Dale “Dusty” Walsh was a dynamic bear of a man. Like Gabe he was a few inches over six feet and built to intimidate. Founder of Royal’s most private security firm, The Walsh Group, he’d brought Gabe into the fold after he’d left the Texas Rangers.
“Yeah, my dad’s pretty shook up. That was him sending the text.”
Gabe’s close relationship with his father was something Shane had always envied. His dad had died when Shane was in his early twenties, but even before the heart attack took him, there hadn’t been much good about their connection.
“Hopefully, the doctors have a good alternative program to get Dusty through this.”
“Let’s hope.”
The two men shifted gears and talked about the progress on Shane’s latest project, a luxury resort development in the vein of George Vanderbilt’s iconic French Renaissance château in North Carolina, but brimming with cutting-edge technology. As he was expounding on the challenges of introducing the concept of small plates to a state whose motto was “everything’s bigger in Texas,” a hand settled on Shane’s shoulder. The all-too-familiar zap of awareness told him who stood beside him before she spoke.
“Hello, Gabe. How are things at The Walsh Group?”
“Fine.” Gabe’s hazel eyes took on a devilish gleam as he
noticed Shane’s gritted teeth. “And how are you doing at Hope Springs?”