Page 26 of Ruthless Love

“Don’t worry. I’ve got just the thing.” I tug my phone from my back pocket and take a few shots of the mammoth beast, including a quick selfie, grateful for the Nat Geo-quality lenses of the latest phone. After five or six shots, I send them off in a text.

“W-w-what are you doing?” she asks, curiosity bleeding through her hysteria.

“Finding a new home for Godzilla here.” My phone pings with a return text. “My friend Gary has two little boys who’ve been dying for a pet spider. That or a snake, but I think his wife ixnayed the snake.”

“But she’s okay with a spider?”

“Oh, it’s not the pet that concerns her. She’s seen camel spiders that make that guy look like a ladybug. No, she’s worried she’ll be the one stuck taking care of it, and all she cares about is what they eat.”

Evie utters a blech under her breath, and I can feel her body shiver behind mine. Her tiny whimpers are my undoing, and I pull her against my side for reassurance, patting her as I answer my ringing phone.

“Hey, you still have that old aquarium? You’ll need it. It’s the house across the street from mine. Nope, she doesn’t want money. Hell, she’d probably pay you ten times the going rate to cart it away,” I say with a hearty chuckle as I get a good look at her bright blue eyes, wide with concern, as she stays tucked in my hold. “And bring the boys. See if they can find any other ones around.”

“Other ones?” Evie asks, scared but calmer. Her stutter has stopped, but as she leans her head against my chest, her alarmed stare is fixed out the window.

“It’s just a precaution,” I lie, rubbing her arm and wondering how the hell this is the first one she’s seen.

Thankfully, the boys don’t find any other tarantulas, so I don’t have to peel the poor girl off the ceiling. Evie has bundled up several muffins and cookies for them, and she and Gary exchange phone numbers.

“I’m just a few minutes away and work from home,” Gary says. “If you like, each day the boys can ride their bikes over and see if they find any others.”

Evie nods her head quickly. “And each day they come, they’ll get cookies.”

I clap Gary on the back, thanking him too as I walk him out. The boys are busy admiring their new pet, but quickly wave as I say, “See you later.”

As they take off, I check in on Evie.

“You gonna be okay?” I ask, and her worried frown has me lift her chin with a finger. “Hey, I’m just across the street if you need anything.”

“You could stay,” she says with a sweet blend of adamance and begging. “I have all the ingredients and can rustle you up a fresh bourbon peach pie in a heartbeat.”

Her words come out as more of a question than anything else, and I can see she could use a little moral support against her fears. So I glance at my cell as if there might be anything else on my calendar—which there’s not.

“Sure,” I say, and not just because Mav’s voice echoes in my ears. But because I’m getting hungry, and that dessert sounds really good. “But it’s getting late, and I’m guessing you haven’t eaten. How about I order a pizza while you fix your infamous pie.”

“Yes,” she says, enthusiasm and relief pouring from her. “I love pizza, and I’m not picky at all. I’m a goat. I’ll eat anything.”

Good to know.

While I click through the order app, selecting my usual thick crust with the works, I watch her slip on the apron that’s become a part of her evening routine. “You sure you don’t want a thin-crust veggie?”

“You sure you don’t want an eggplant and avocado pie?”

Smartass. “Meat lovers it is.”

I wander over to get a better look at what she’s doing. A strainer of fresh peaches sits in the sink as Evie measures out flour, white sugar, brown sugar, and enough butter to clog my arteries from fifty paces.

“Sliced or diced?” I ask, sliding the cutting board closer and grabbing the largest knife for the hell of it, posing as if I’m about to go all stabby-stabby murderous on one.

“Sliced, you psychopath,” she says with a laugh.

A few slices in, and I can’t keep my big mouth shut. “Why aren’t you living with Dimitri?”

I’m nosy as hell and unapologetic about it. And she’s taking it in stride because the only alternative if I leave is she’ll have to burn the place to the ground.

With a shrug, she powers on the mixer. “Dimitri’s home is just that. His. He wants to bring you on the project to help me see that it can be mine too. Alas, you blew him off.”

I’m surprised to learn about this side of a cold-blooded bastard like Dimitri Antonov, but who knows? Maybe everyone has a point of redemption.

---