Was it Max’s imagination, or had there been a hint of a sneer on Seb’s face for a second? How extraordinary. “It may end up going nowhere, so it seems ill-advised to put me on the payroll. I don’t need a salary, anyway. I just . . .”

“You want to feel useful,” Seb suggested, with a sudden world-weariness in his tone that made something catch in Max’s chest. Max’s whole mission for the first thirteen years of Seb’s life had been to arrange things so Seb never had to sound like that. Perhaps Max’s mistake had been to assume that once Seb was safely away at school, the work was done.

“Yes. That’s exactly it. Why don’t we work on this project together and see how it turns out? You find the mines, and I’ll do some historical sleuthing. If it turns out we do own a mine with some historical significance, we can discuss further.”

“All right, then.” Seb smiled at him and took a big bite of his galette. “This is nice,” he said through a mouthful.

Max didn’t know if he was talking about the food or simply the fact that they were together. Or the understanding they seemed to have arrived at, so suddenly and so easily. Perhaps all they’d needed was an afternoon alone, away from the external forces that were constantly pressing in on them. Whatever Seb meant, Max agreed, so he smiled and said, “It is nice.”

He felt as if he had his brother back. Or, more accurately, his brother had him back. And he wasn’t letting him go again.

Chapter Eight

Dani’s first Tinder date was a bust.

On paper, it should have worked. Her pact with Max had forced her out of her paralysis, and after a lot of swiping and messaging that went nowhere, she’d finally found one Mr. Logan Bram. Logan Bram owned an apartment, loved his two-year-old nephew, and worked as a “fitness tech engineer,” which Dani hadn’t realized was a job, but then again, she hadn’t realized “duke” was a job, either.

Also, Logan Bram was hot, in a tanned, muscly, conventional sort of way. That was the relevant point. She just needed someone who was moderately attractive and not a serial killer. The job and the apartment and the nephew didn’t matter inherently; they were merely evidence that he was not a serial killer—though she supposed serial killers could have jobs and apartments and nephews.

She had done everything she was supposed to do, was the point. She’d done the swiping and the vetting and the DM-ing and the “Is he or is he not likely to be a serial killer?” risk analysis.