Chapter 11: Naked Coffee and Love Talk
The kitchen smelled like salt and coffee and the faint, burnt-sugar tang of whatever Mai had attempted to cook earlier. Jeeves hovered near the ceiling, his mechanical arms folding and unfolding with a quiet metallic click, his single optical sensor rotating in slow, contented circles.
Mandy poured herself a mug of coffee and didn't bother looking for clothes.
The house was empty. Well, not empty. The guest room door was still closed, and she could hear the shower running upstairs—Yukio, probably, or Felicity trying to rinse off the evidence of the last hour. But empty enough. Empty of anyone who'd care that she was standing in the kitchen with her tits out and her thighs still sticky.
She took a sip. The coffee was perfect—dark and bitter, the way she liked it.
"Good morning, Mistress Mandy."
"Morning, Jeeves."
"I trust you slept well."
Mandy snorted. "Define 'slept.'"
The little automaton didn't answer. He just drifted toward the counter and extended one of his arms, nudging a plate of croissants in her direction. Fresh from the bakery down the street—still warm, still flaking butter onto the granite.
She took one.
The kitchen windows were open, letting in the ocean breeze. The waves were gentle today, rolling onto the shore with a soft, rhythmic hush. Gulls wheeled overhead. Somewhere down the beach, a dog was barking.
Mandy bit into the croissant and watched the water.
She was thinking about the photograph. The girl with the silver hair and the pointed ears. The future that was waiting for her, somewhere out there, in a time that hadn't happened yet.
She was thinking about Ben and Jess, still tangled in her sheets downstairs.
She was thinking about how, twenty-four hours ago, she'd been worried about Rachel. About the compliance collar. About the consortium and the bounty and the mess that had brought Diego to their doorstep with a hole in his side and a warning on his lips.
Now Rachel was asleep on the couch. Diego was in the guest room—no, wait. Diego was in the hospital. He'd been taken there last night, after the fight, after the rescue. Calista had gone with him. Calista had stayed.
Mandy smiled into her coffee.
The door clicked open.
Beth drifted in like she'd been summoned—barefoot, naked except for the camera slung over one shoulder, her blonde hair sticking up in eight different directions. She looked thoroughly debauched. She also looked happier than Mandy had seen her in weeks.
"Morning, Shutterfly."
"Morning, Bug." Beth crossed to the coffee maker and poured herself a mug. She didn't bother with cream or sugar. Just drank it black, the way their mother did. "You're naked."
"So are you."
"Fair point." Beth leaned against the counter and took a long sip. "I had sex on the staircase."
"I heard."
"You heard?"
"The walls are thin, Beth. Also, I have ears."
Beth's cheeks flushed, but she was grinning. "It was Yukio's idea."
"I'm sure it was."
"Her tongue is—" Beth paused, searching for the right word. "Legendary. It's legendary. The rumors don't do it justice."
Mandy laughed. "Good to know."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, drinking their coffee, watching the waves. Then Beth set her mug down and reached for a strawberry from the plate Jeeves had provided.
"So," she said. "You and Ben and Jess."
"What about us?"
"You're happy."
It wasn't a question. Mandy nodded anyway. "Yeah. I am."
"Good." Beth bit into the strawberry. "You deserve it."
"So do you."
"I know." Beth's smile softened. "Marty's—he's something else, Bug. He looks at me like I'm the only person in the world."
"That's because you are. To him."
"Yeah." Beth's voice was quiet. "I think that's why it scares me sometimes."
Mandy set her coffee down and crossed to her sister. She wrapped an arm around Beth's shoulders—a sideways hug, casual, the kind they'd been giving each other since they were kids.
"You're allowed to be scared," Mandy said. "It means you care."
"I know." Beth leaned into her. "Doesn't make it easier."
"No. But it makes it worth it."
They stood like that for a while. The sun climbed higher. The waves kept rolling. And the house slowly came to life around them—footsteps upstairs, the creak of a door, the distant murmur of voices.
Then Casey appeared in the doorway.
She was dressed in nothing but a towel, her silver-streaked hair damp and loose around her shoulders. She looked like she'd just stepped out of the shower—or maybe she'd never gotten dressed after the guest room. Hard to tell. Hard to care.
She grabbed a croissant and a coffee and settled onto a stool like she'd done this a thousand times.
"Morning, girls."
"Morning, Mom."
"Morning, Mom."
Casey took a bite of her croissant. She chewed slowly, deliberately, her eyes moving between her two daughters with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something softer.
"You two look like you've had a morning."
"We have," Beth said.
"I can see that." Casey's gaze flicked to Beth's camera. "Get any good shots?"
"A few."
"Of what?"
Beth's cheeks went pink. "The sunrise."
"Uh-huh." Casey's lips twitched. "And?"
"And—some other stuff."
"Stuff."
"Naked stuff."
Casey laughed. It was a warm sound—full and genuine, the kind of laugh that made the kitchen feel smaller and safer all at once.
"Good for you, Lizzy."
Beth blinked. "That's it? Good for you?"
"What did you expect? A lecture?" Casey took another sip of coffee. "You're twenty years old. You're in Miami. You're surrounded by beautiful women who want to fuck you. I'd be more worried if you weren't taking advantage."
"Mom."
"I'm serious. Your father and I—we've always wanted you girls to be happy. To explore. To figure out what you want." Casey set her mug down. "So you had sex on a staircase. So what? As long as you were safe and you had fun, I don't care."
Beth stared at her. Then she laughed—a surprised, genuine laugh that filled the room.
"You're the weirdest mom ever."
"I know." Casey reached for another croissant. "I've made peace with it."
Mandy was about to say something—something teasing, probably, about how their mother had zero room to talk about weirdness—when the door to the guest room across the hall opened.
Calista stepped out.
She was wearing one of Mike's old t-shirts and a pair of Mandy's shorts—both of which were too short on her, because Calista was six inches taller than the other women in the family. Her silver hair was loose, spilling down her back. Her alabaster skin was practically glowing in the morning light.
And her golden eyes were soft. Dreamy. Distracted.
She drifted into the kitchen like she was walking through a dream.
Casey saw it first.
She saw the way Calista's gaze kept drifting toward the hallway—toward the front door, toward the hospital, toward wherever Diego was. She saw the soft, stupid smile that Calista couldn't quite wipe off her face. She saw the way her daughter—adopted, yes, but hers all the same—wrapped both hands around her coffee mug like she was holding something precious.
"You're in love with him," Casey said flatly. "Diego. You've known him three days."
Mandy choked on her coffee.
"Three days?" She coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Calista, that photo of your future daughter doesn't mean you have to marry the guy tomorrow."
Beth shrugged and reached for another strawberry. "It's probably a half-elf thing. You guys bond fast, right?"
Calista didn't deny any of it.
She just wrapped both hands around her mug and started talking.
She talked about Diego's hands—how they were rough and calloused and warm, how they'd felt on her face when he'd pulled her out of the way of that falling debris. She talked about his accent—the way his voice dipped and rolled over certain words, the way it made her stomach flip every time he said her name. She talked about the way he looked at her when she was interrogating him—not afraid, not angry, just steady. Like he saw her. Like he saw through her.
She talked about the way he tackled a Consortium agent to save her life.
"I was about to be shot," she said. "There was this woman who was coming right at me, and I was frozen. I couldn't move. And then Diego just—" She gestured with her mug. "He tackled her, despite his injuries."
"That's not romantic," Mandy said. "That's just basic self-preservation."
"It was romantic."
"It was basic."
"It was both."
Casey was watching Calista with an expression that Mandy couldn't quite read. Part amusement. Part pride. Part something else—something older and wiser and a little bit sad.
"You really like him," Casey said.
"I really do."
"You've known him three days."
"I know."
"He's a member of the Consortium. Or he was. He ran to us for help, which means he's a target now. He's got enemies. He's got baggage. He's probably got a dozen secrets he hasn't told you yet."
"I know."
"And you're still—"
"I'm still." Calista met Casey's eyes. "I don't know how to explain it, Mom. It's not like it was with the others. It's not like it was with—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It's different. He's different."
Casey was quiet for a moment.
Then she sighed and reached across the island to squeeze Calista's hand.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. But you be careful with your heart, baby girl. You're allowed to fall in love. You're not allowed to lose yourself."
Calista smiled. "I won't."
"You won't."
"I promise."
"Good." Casey released her hand and reached for another croissant. "Now eat something. You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted."
"Then eat."
Calista laughed and took a pastry.
Mandy watched the exchange with something warm and complicated in her chest. She'd known Calista since they were kids—since before Calista had known she was adopted, since before either of them had known the truth about her parentage. They'd grown up as sisters. They'd fought like sisters. They'd learned to be sisters.
And now Calista was in love. With a man she'd known for three days. With a former Consortium operative who'd risked his life to warn them about an assassin.
Mandy didn't know if it would last. She didn't know if it would work.
But she knew Calista. And Calista was smart. Calista was brave. Calista had survived things that would have broken other people.
If anyone could make it work, it was her.
"So," Mandy said. "Tell us more about him."
Calista's eyes lit up. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
And so Calista talked. She talked about Diego's childhood in Juarez—about his Tia Dora, who he'd thought was just an eccentric old woman until he realized she was actually a witch. She talked about his time in the Consortium—about the lies they'd fed him, the promises they'd made, the slow, sickening realization that he'd been working for the wrong side. She talked about the day he'd decided to run—the day he'd overheard Inez Murphy planning to send a team to the beach house, a team that would have killed everyone inside.
"He could have run anywhere," Calista said. "He could have disappeared. Changed his name. Left the country. But he came here. He came to warn us. He almost died getting here."
"He's brave," Beth said.
"He's an idiot," Mandy said. "Brave, but an idiot."
"Most brave people are."
Casey snorted. "That's true."
They sat around the island, the four of them—naked and half-naked and not caring—and talked about the men in their lives like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Casey talked about Mike. About how they'd met in college, about how he'd made her laugh on their first date, about how he still made her laugh after twenty years. About how his hands still found her in the dark, about how he still whispered her name like it was something precious. About how, even after everything they'd been through—the captures, the enchantments, the lust bombs—he was still the person she wanted to wake up next to.
Mandy talked about Ben and Jess. About how Ben was teaching her to be patient, about how Jess was teaching her to be brave. About how they'd both been there for her when the lust bomb hit, how they'd held her and touched her and loved her until the haze finally cleared. About how she was learning to share, learning to trust, learning to let herself be vulnerable in front of people who weren't her parents.
Beth talked about Marty. About the boy from the void who'd looked at her with those wide, wondering eyes and said her name like it was a prayer. About how he was learning the world—one day at a time, one small discovery at a time—and how she was learning it right alongside him. About how terrifying it was to be someone's whole universe.
And Calista talked about Diego. About his hands and his accent and his eyes. About the way he'd looked at her when she was interrogating him. About the way he'd thrown that coral.
By the time she was done, Mandy was threatening to throw a grape at her.
"If you say 'his eyes' one more time—"
"His eyes are beautiful."
"I'm going to throw it."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Calista laughed and put her hands up. "Fine. I'll stop."
"Thank you."
"For now."
Mandy threw the grape.
Calista caught it in her mouth.
Through the doorway, a floorboard creaked.
Mandy looked up.
Her father stood in the hall—shaggy hair going grey, chubby belly, old bathrobe hanging open over a pair of gym shorts. He was clearly drawn by the smell of coffee. He was clearly not prepared for what he found.
He took one look at his wife, his daughters, and his adopted half-elf daughter—all sitting naked and grinning at the kitchen island, all talking about men like they were discussing the weather.
He turned around and walked right back into the bedroom without a word.
The door clicked shut.
Beth dissolved into giggles. Calista buried her face in her hands. Casey just shook her head and reached for another croissant.
"Your father," she said, "is a very smart man."
Mandy grinned and took a sip of her coffee.
Outside, the waves kept rolling. The sun kept climbing. And somewhere in the house, a future was waiting—a future with a girl named Calista and a boy with dark eyes and a smile that made her heart skip three beats.
But that was later. That was another chapter.
For now, there was coffee and croissants and the sound of her mother laughing.
For now, that was enough.
The bathroom door opened down the hall. Yukio emerged in a robe—one of Mandy's, too short, barely covering her ass—her dark hair wet and her face flushed. She limped into the kitchen using her cane, her eyes moving over the assembled women with a look of quiet satisfaction.
"Good morning," she said. "I see we're all naked."
"Some of us," Casey said.
"Most of us." Yukio settled onto a stool beside Beth and reached for a croissant. "Where's Mike?"
"Fled."
"Smart man."
"That's what I said."
Yukio took a bite of her pastry. Her gaze drifted toward Calista—toward the soft, dreamy expression that still hadn't faded from the half-elf's face.
"So," Yukio said. "Diego."
Calista's cheeks flushed. "What about him?"
"You're in love with him."
"That's—" Calista paused. "Is it that obvious?"
"You've been glowing since you walked out of the guest room. You're glowing now." Yukio gestured with her croissant. "Also, I'm an adventurer. I notice things."
Mandy snorted. "You notice everything."
"It's a gift."
"A curse."
"Same thing."
Calista laughed. She was still blushing, still glowing, still wrapped up in the memory of a man she'd known for three days. But she didn't seem embarrassed. She seemed—happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy.
And that, Mandy realized, was worth more than any photograph.
The bathroom door opened.
Felicity stumbled in, her blonde hair wet, her cheeks pink, her expression somewhere between mortified and thrilled. She was wearing a towel—just a towel—and she was clutching it to her chest like it might fly away at any moment.
"Good morning," she said weakly.
"Morning, Flick." Mandy raised her mug. "There's coffee."
"I need more than coffee."
"There's also croissants."
"I need more than croissants."
"There's—" Mandy paused. "Actually, I don't know what else there is. Jeeves?"
"The kitchen is fully stocked, Mistress Mandy. I can prepare eggs, bacon, or any other breakfast item you desire."
Felicity sank onto a stool and put her head in her hands. "I just had sex with four women on a staircase. My mother is a professor. My father used to be a cosmic entity. And I just had sex with four women on a staircase."
"Was it good?" Casey asked.
"That's not the point."
"Was it good?"
Felicity looked up. Her cheeks were the color of a ripe tomato. But slowly, reluctantly, a smile spread across her face.
"Yes," she said. "It was very good."
"Then I don't see the problem."
Felicity stared at her. Then she laughed—a surprised, helpless laugh that shook her whole body.
"I love this family," she said. "I love this weird, naked, sex-positive family."
Casey reached over and squeezed her hand. "We love you too, Flick."
And for a moment—just a moment—the kitchen was quiet. The waves rolled. The sun shone. And six women sat together in various states of undress, eating breakfast and talking about men and laughing at nothing at all.
It was chaos. It was messy. It was exactly what Mandy had moved to Miami for.
The bedroom door opened again.
This time, it was Mike—still in his bathrobe, still looking faintly shell-shocked, but determined. He walked into the kitchen with the stiff, careful gait of a man who'd seen too much vagina before nine in the morning.
"I just want coffee," he said. "That's all. Just coffee."
Casey pointed to the pot. "Help yourself."
He poured a mug. He drank it standing up, his back to the room.
"You can turn around," Beth said. "We're not going to bite."
"I'm not worried about biting."
"Then what are you worried about?"
Mike turned. His eyes swept over the room—over his wife, his daughters, his adopted half-elf daughter, the world-class adventurer, and the professor's oldest kid. All of them naked. All of them grinning at him.
"I'm worried," he said slowly, "that I'm going to say something inappropriate."
"Define inappropriate."
"Anything involving the words 'my' and 'daughters' and 'naked' in the same sentence."
Casey laughed. "You're fine, Mike. You've been quiet for twenty years. We trust you."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
Mike took another sip of his coffee. Then he set the mug down and reached for a croissant—the last one on the plate.
"I'm going back to the bedroom," he said. "If anyone needs me, I'll be pretending this morning never happened."
"Love you too, Dad," Mandy called after him.
He waved without turning around.
The door clicked shut.
And the women—all of them—burst into laughter.
It was a good morning. It was a weird morning. It was the kind of morning that could only happen in a house full of Williamsons and their friends.
Mandy looked around the kitchen—at her mother and her sisters and the women she'd come to think of as family—and felt something settle in her chest. Something warm and steady and sure.
She thought about the future. About the girl with the silver hair and the pointed ears. About the life that was waiting for her, somewhere out there, in a time that hadn't happened yet.
She thought about Ben and Jess, still asleep in her bed.
She thought about all the mornings to come—the chaos, the laughter, the conversations that would be repeated and repeated until they became legends.
She smiled.
"Jeeves," she said. "We need more croissants."
"Right away, Mistress Mandy."
The little automaton drifted toward the door, his mechanical arms whirring.
And the morning continued—warm and strange and full of possibility.
Just the way Mandy liked it.