They all ate in the small but comfortable burnt-orange colored dining room—no sign of Paris's invasion there, thank God—Chicago and Paris engaging in small talk about business and more business as Shanya seethed in her seat.

Paris was actually asking Chicago for advice on some settlement deal he was getting into with a couple of greedy stockbrokers. Which didn't make any sense to her since he had Scot for that. But apparently, he wanted an "outside opinion."

Suck up.

It seemed to her that Chicago was simply feigning elation towards the fact that a Boden was interested in his work and was seeking his advice, and Paris simply wanted Chicago to like him. The twits.

But as Shanya turned her attention to the walls lined with rows of dishes and the few Chinese forget-me-nots on the wall shelves, she had to admit that the more jovial their behavior, the less mad she became. She had fully expected them to be at odds with each other. Not this... chumminess.

She grudgingly nibbled away at her toast, which was quite good. Unlike her, Chicago knew how to cook. Ever the mama's boy.

"Right, let's get down to it then," Chicago said, setting his utensils down on his now empty plate and putting his elbows on the table, his hands clasped together.

Shanya's insides clenched. Her brother's countenance had done a complete 180. From suspicious amiableness to downright shadiness. Shadier than usual. Had the last 30 something minutes been an act?

He looked pointedly at both of them. "Are the both of you serious about getting married?"

Shanya's eyes widened a little, her breath stilling. Had he seen through their facade? Because if he had there was no way, absolutely no way he was going to let her go through with any of it. No matter what he may need to do.

Paris set his utensils down too, his plate had been wiped clean.

"Yes. We are."

There was a certainty in his voice that made Shanya very uneasy.

Chicago nodded. "Because she's pregnant?"

Paris had a sudden fit of cough and shifted uncomfortably in his seat while Shanya narrowed her eyes.

"Yeah, with twins. Due to drop them in, like, 30 seconds."

Beside her, Paris's coughing fit got worse. She couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or because he was trying to keep from laughing uncontrollably.

Chicago didn't even have the decency to look ashamed as he continued. "I've heard a lot of things about your family, Paris. Some good, some bad, some very bad. And I would hate for my sister to get caught up in those alleged very bad things if and when they come to bite you in the ass."

Shanya blinked, her hands clenching and unclenching. To her left, Paris only listened. The entire thing was almost comical.

"But knowing my sister, when she sets her mind to something, there's no changing it. So I couldn't separate you even if I tried. I won't. Not only because of the obvious affection you two share—Shanya is only this vipery when she cares about someone—but because I am a good judge of character. My line of work demands it. And I sense that you're a good guy, Boden. The question is, are you good for her?"

Shanya couldn't believe what she was hearing. Could not believe it. He had never said so many words to... Literally anyone. Never spoken out of his heart. She'd never seen him so...human. A self-righteous one, but human all the same. Had she completely misjudged her brother?

It occurred to her that she really didn't know her brother at all. Somehow, that made whatever this was so much more uncomfortable.

Paris looked over at Shanya first, his eyes unreadable, and then he turned back to her brother. "No one is good for your sister, Chicago. I am convinced I don't deserve her."

The way he said it... Shanya shook her head and ignored the fast beat of her heart.

Chicago simply nodded blandly, but something had changed in his eyes.

"Good. Because Shanya is not known for making the best decisions. She doesn't have the best boyfriend track record either."

Her initial shock dissipated as she glared at him. She hated when older brothers played the part of the relationship sabotaging weasels. "Your point?"

He turned to Paris. "I've seen enough to know you will care for her with your life. So you have my blessing." He leaned in, his movements stiff and precise as he continued with a voice of steel. "Do not break her heart or I'll sue you and everything you're worth."

Shanya wasn't sure she could handle the waves of shock that kept rushing through her. Any more and she was certain she would become an electric jellyfish. She turned to Paris. There was a look of respect and admiration in his eyes for her brother.

"I believe you. Your sister is in good hands."

With a curt nod, Chicago turned to her. "Happy birthday, my dear." He reached into his pocket and brought out a ruby necklace with her initials on it.

S.R.W. The same gift he kept giving her year after year, only, they were in different color.

Well, at least some things never changed, Shanya mused.

* * * *

Chicago left a short while later, saying more words than he had when he'd come. Shanya wished she could say she'd wanted him to say less but she'd be lying. The easy rapor they'd had, the playful banter as they teased and insulted each other, it felt like old times. Before he started law school and became the entitled, uptight, pain in the ass he now was. The emptiness she'd been feeling... it was still there. But it now felt like an opened window.

Nevertheless, the day had been weird, and she was glad to see dusk.

She and Paris were standing shoulder to shoulder, doing the dishes in collective silence—Paris washing them while Shanya rinsed and set them on their respective racks. At least their mouths were silent. Their eyes on the other hand spoke volumes, telling the same burning tale each time their hands brushed against each other while passing dishes or the soapy water jumped too far up their skin and they laughed it off.

Paris had rolled his shirt sleeves, revealing lean muscles and tiny brown hairs that laid flatteringly across his pale skin. The red apron he wore looked so silly on him she'd had to bite her inner cheek to keep from laughing. She liked watching him, liked the sideway glances he sent her way thinking she hadn't noticed it, liked spending time with him—even if that time was spent in silence, which she was actually content with until—

"What does the R stand for?"

It took her all of three seconds to realize what he'd meant. The necklace. Chicago's gift.

"Rose," she quipped as she took the blue glass plate from his outstretched hand.

Shaking his head, he gave her a small chuckle. "That is surprisingly accurate."

"Because I'm beautiful but deadly?" she cooed, batting her eyelashes at him as she wiped the freshly rinsed blue plate with the dishwipe.

"And prickly, and insidious, with a nasty temper..."

She tried not to flush outright at the fact that he'd indirectly called her beautiful. Feigning hurt, she said, "Why, Paris. That's no way to talk about your fiance."

The minute the words came out of her mouth, she regretted it. He tensed, his eyes turning distant as he busied himself with the dishes. There was no anger in his movements. Just... helplessness, frustration, regret. Did he regret their kiss? Or the fact that Heather saw their kiss?

They were silent again as they completed the task at hand.

When they were down to the last plate, just when Shanya was beginning to think he wasn't going to say anything, he turned around, his right hand resting on the sink as he leaned into her.

"Join me for a ride. Please." He was so close she could see each wonderful pattern of his firm lips. Feel the erotic waves of masculine aura he exuded. Sense that he was holding back. On what, she didn't know. But she didn't dare breathe as her traitorous fingers itched to trace his thin lower lip, tremulous and sensual in their design.

Blinking, she shook her head once, taking a firm step back. "I can't, actually. Got a date with Lily."

"Well," he drawled, looking subtly around the apartment, "she's not here, is she?"

He had a point. In fact, Lily was almost an hour late. Probably got carried away by her idiot beau.

With a quick nod at Paris, she headed for the stairs towards her room. Ignoring the glass splinters about her, she exchanged the ridiculous dress shirt she'd worn out of spite for a brown tank top that almost resembled the color of her skin. She threw in skinny blue jeans, a black small fitted blazer, and a pair of authentic sneakers.

After sending a quick text to Lily about the change of plans, she came down the stairs, feeling everything her appearance wasn't showing. Nervous.

Upon leaving the house, she stopped short on the porch, staring at a grinning Paris leaning on his motorcycle.

Motorcycle.

She scowled. "When you said "ride", I didn't think you meant ride in that."

Paris's grin only got wider as he stretched out his hands, beckoning for her to join him.

She shook her head vehemently. "I'm not getting on that thing with you, you psycho."

"Psycho, detestable territorial idiot... the names keep coming." He had the nerve to feign hurt as he crossed his arms. "And that's just the ones you've actually said out loud. It frightens me to think about the ones you've called me in your head."

Shanya smiled, the action alone telling. "I'm not getting on that thing with you."

"Why not?"

She stared at him like he was indeed a psycho. "I'm not even comfortable in cars. And they have four secure doors. What makes you think i'll be comfortable on a motorcycle, with no doors, no seat belts, and no safety, built purposefully to kill humans?"

Paris cackled. He was laughing at her. She crossed her own arms and bared her teeth.

"People die in those monstrosities. Die. You are familiar with those three letter words, right? Just cause you white people are fond of doing crazy things doesn't mean I am."

He didn't stop laughing. "Oh? What other crazy things do us white people do?"

She jotted her chin up. "You kiss your dogs. Sometimes even feed them from your own mouths."

"That's called affection, Wood."

"No. Disgusting is what it is. Unhygienic."

He shrugged, sobering up. But the twinkle from his laughing fit didn't leave his eyes. "Well, I don't own a dog."

Shanya kept schtum, her face set in a determined scowl.

"Come on," he urged, holding out a dark blue helmet for her. "What happened to prudence?"

"Motorcycles don't have seatbelts, do they?"

He tilted his head and stared at her in such a solemn way she almost laughed. But that laugh died in her throat upon his next words.

"I'll be your seatbelt."

She held herself stiffly even though her whole inner being wanted to sing. His words were simple enough but they both knew it held a greater, deeper, intimate meaning. One they obviously weren't prepared to talk about. Why would he say that? He was not allowed to say things like that. Especially not while he was staring at her the way he was right now. Before she could reprimand him, he continued.

"I'll make sure nothing happens to you. Trust me."

She trusted him. Kinda. Just not that loud death trap.

But the look in his eyes, the look that conveyed that he would never let anything happen to her, that look had her dismissing her initial thought processes and had her legs moving. She walked over to him, somewhat wobbly, taking the helmet and struggling to put it on.

"Fine. But if anything happens to me my ghost will haunt you. For eternity."

His lips tugged into an amusing smile. "You said something similar the first time we met."

"Second time," she corrected.

"Right, the second time we met."

"You were such an arrogant prick."

"Were?" he teased, his smile growing.

"Are."

He laughed. "Well, I believed you then and I believe you now. You're safe with me, I promise. Now, let me help you fix that." He took the helmet from her and with a gentle thrust, settled it perfectly on her head.

"Where are we going?" Shanya asked as grey eyes met hers.

"Some place special."

A/n: Y'all would legit take me to some place special if you color in that star button ;)