Page 39 of The Fix

The flush takes over my face before I can stop it, which only serves to confirm whatever suspicion Toby has cooked up in his head.

He’s wrong—I would never—but I also don’t correct him, either.

“The things I didn’t know about you …” he mutters, resuming his gait around the kitchen, adding various ingredients and spices to the pots heating on the stove. “Besides, I showered earlier.”

I try to convince myself that the delicious smell is enough to keep my feet stuck to the tile but when my eyes refuse to leave the muscles of Toby’s back, the tattoos standing proud against tanned skin that intrigue me rather than intimidate me, and the dusting of hair across his chest that leads to the southern part of his torso, I know I’m losing the battle. His fingers—so talented—as they work about the concoction, introducing a ground meat of some kind to the sizzling pan, then to the tomato-based sauce he’s been nursing in a larger pot.

My eyes follow his frame as he swaggers around the kitchen like cooking is just something he does, while shirtless, with no one around but me to feed.

“Will you ever talk about it?” I ask, hoping that the calmness and the distraction of cooking will open him up enough to let some of the demons out.

And I can keep my newfound ones in.

“No.”

Not surprising.

“Fine,” I placate. “Wanna talk about the other thing?”

“Nope.” He doesn’t even look up from his tasks.

“Do you even remember her?” I push. I know it’s probably the wrong way to do this, but I’m sick of dancing around the topics. Pretending that he doesn’t know when he has to after what happened at Nitro’s meet and greet. If we’re going to fight the accusations, then I need the truth. From him. “Recognize her at all?”

This question pauses him. His brown eyes, a lighter shade than they were this morning, flick to me and narrow. “I thought no meant no.”

I scoff. “C’mon, Jeffers.” I shake my head. “Is there any chance it’s real?”

“Real? I always wear a raincoat.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s what you’re getting,” he growls and turns back to the stove. “It ain’t mine.”

I step closer. “Are you positive?”

I need to be sure. For press purposes.

The sound that comes from him is almost animalistic. Frustrated and defensive.

“Then why is there a DNA test?”

Toby scoffs, tossing the spoon onto the stove, red sauce splattering all over the cooktop. “Funny, Prune,” he mutters as he snags a towel he wrings and turns away from me.

“I don’t think any part of this is funny.” Following him, we round the island and he stops to pull open the refrigerator.

“No shit,” Toby says as he bends down and grabs something out.

“Can you be serious for two seconds, Jeffers?”

He whips around so fast, I don’t even see what he slams against the counter he backs me into. “How about you be serious, Anna,” he growls, his bare chest pressing into mine, his skin hot to the touch. “I know you’re pretty fucking smart. Figure it the fuck out.”

His eyes—dark and full of emotions I couldn’t name—stare right through me. “What is there to figure out? It’s a simple answer. Yes or no?”

“Let’s see,” he growls and bows his head, making sure those intense eyes are on mine. “What element do you have to have in order to do a DNA test before a baby is even fucking born?”

“DNA … I guess, saliva, blood, something like that.”

“Bingo!” he calls out, his hands coming to rest on either side of the countertop that bites into my back, just above my butt, that would be the perfect height to— “And when have I provided any of those to anyone, Prune?” The smile that stretches his lips holds no humor as he closes in, so near that I feel the tickle of his facial hair when he speaks and the brush of his skin against my raised nipples through the thin tank. “Tell me. When.”

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