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“There’s a receiving line when you walk in,” Max apprised his brother. “Mr. Levin thought since Sutter was sponsoring it and since we just purchased Armada and some members of their senior staff would be there⁠—”

“Sure,” Aaron cut him off, his gaze sliding up and down my body.

“Aaron?”

“I,” he rasped, “don’t think that costume is supposed to look like that.”

“Like what?” I took a step forward and bumped his nose with mine before kissing him lightly.

“Oh,” Astrid whimpered and was suddenly bawling.

“For crissakes,” I mumbled, shoving the bowl at Aaron before turning from him and grabbing Astrid, crushing her to me.

“What’s going on?” Aaron demanded.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Go upstairs and change.”

“There’s obviously something,” he insisted, moving close to me, his hand on Astrid’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, tell me what’s wrong. Whatever it is, I can fix it.”

“Duncan’s father left a horrendous message on his voicemail,” Max blurted shakily. “Astrid and I didn’t mean to overhear it, but we came in unannounced and⁠—”

“Wait.” Aaron stopped him, his gaze moving from her to me. “She’s upset for you?”

“Yes, because she has a really soft heart,” I murmured, lifting her chin and cupping her cheek so her eyes met mine. “Which, as I’ve told her on a number of occasions, is not going to serve her well as an ASA in the great city of Chicago. You need to toughen up, kid.”

Instead of punching me or pinching me like she normally did, she threw her arms around my neck and squeezed tight. “I’m so sorry your father is a homophobic prick.” She rushed out the words.

“Me too, doll.” I laughed in her ear, which made her squeal and pull away from me. “Now, enough already. Just let it go.”

“Okay.”

“Go fix your makeup,” I directed her before wheeling on Max. “And you, have a shot of something and perk up.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

My eyes were on Aaron next. “And you, go change. We gotta go.”

Before he could respond, I grabbed the bowl out of his hand, turned, and walked into the kitchen. The pierogi stuck to the roof of my mouth; I needed something to wash it down with. Drinking orange juice from the carton was bad, but since we didn’t have one—just a decanter since Mrs. Kappel squeezed it fresh every day—I figured that was okay. When I closed the door of the Sub-Zero, Aaron was there.

“Yeah, I drank from it. So what?”

“What?”

“You know, the glass door on the thing is awesome,” I said playfully.

“I don’t give a damn about the refrigerator!” he shouted. “I want to know what your fucking father had to say!”

I was about to grab him, but he walked backward beyond my reach.

“Now,” he demanded.

“It’s no big deal. It’s the same thing he’s been saying for weeks. I just forgot to block him from my phone. I did it on my email, but⁠—”

“For weeks? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I?”

“Because we share things.”