How about a head transplant first, then the frickin’ pasta. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

The three of them walked down through the various rooms to yet another marble table. This one was big enough to seat twenty-four, and if there were any more crystal hanging from the ceiling above, it you’d have sworn you were in an ice cave.

The flatware was gold. And no doubt solid.

Are you kidding me, Jim thought as he sat down.

“As the cook’s on vacation,” Vin said as he settled Devina in her chair, “we’ll just serve ourselves.”

“I hope you like what I made.” Devina picked up her damask napkin. “I kept it simple, just some Bolognese sauce over homemade linguine. And the salad is nothing but microgreens, artichoke hearts, and red peppers with an ice wine vinaigrette that I whipped up.”

Whatever it was, the stuff smelled amazing, and looked even better.

After big bowls with gold on their edges were passed around and plates were filled, everyone started eating.

Okay, Devina was a spectacular cook. Period. That micro-whatever with the ice-la-di-da dressing was flat-out amazing…and don’t get him started on the pasta.

“So the work on the bluff house is coming along well,” Vin said. “Don’t you think, Jim?”

This launched an hour-long discussion on the construction, and Jim was once again impressed. In spite of Vin’s digs and his flashy wardrobe, he’d clearly had firsthand experience with the job Jim and the boys were doing—as well as everything the electricians and the plumbers and the siders and the roofers got up in the morning for. The guy knew tools and nails and boards and insulation. Hauling and waste removal. Blacktopping. Permits. Regulations. Easements.

Which made all his attention to detail seem not like that of a nitpicking asswipe owner, but a fellow workman with high standards.

Yup, he’d definitely been a rough palm, at one point.

“…so that’s going to be an issue,” Vin was saying. “The weight on the load-bearing walls in that four-story cathedral foyer is going to be over code. The architect is worried about it.”

Devina spoke up for once. “Well, couldn’t you just make it shorter? Like, closer to the ground?”

“Ceiling height’s not the issue—it’s the steep angle and the weight of the roof. I think we can solve the problem by upgrading to steel beams, though.”

“Oh.” Devina wiped her mouth as if she were embarrassed. “That sounds like a good idea.”

As Vin went off on another tangent about the house, Devina took a special interest in folding the napkin in her lap.

Shit, the guy might know from construction, but you had to wonder: If you’d asked him what his woman’s favorite color was, would he have said the right one?

“So this was a great meal,” Vin said eventually. “To the chef.”