Page 34 of Fiona and the Fixer

She smiled. “That’s good. While your pretty face might help sell a shit ton of books, you really suck at it.”

I did, and the place had only been open twenty minutes before I closed for the rest of the day.

“My face isnotpretty.”

Rugged. Handsome, maybe. But not pretty.

She rolled her eyes, which I was finding more and more endearing, and annoying, each time she did it.

“Fine, you’re hideous. Where are the paper bags in thisplace?” she asked, glancing around the kitchen as if they’d magically appear.

“Are you applying for a job at the bookstore?” I probed, moving the conversation away from my looks and testing her.

She scoffed, then filled her face with cheesy rice, making her cheeks puff out. “I’m definitely not the romantic type.” Based on the way she talked with her mouth full, that was obvious.

“Then why?”

Her shoulders drooped as she continued to chew, then swallow. She didn’t look away the entire time. Studying me. Deciding something. I practically held my breath. Were my friends in big fucking trouble?

“Hannah and I both had gamma knife radiation at the same place, and I wanted to meet her.”

18

FIONA

His eyes buggedout of his head like a cartoon character that got flattened by an anvil.

“Shit, did you have cancer? Are you okay?” He dropped his fork onto the plate with a clatter.

His blue eyes raked over me, then startling me, he pushed to his feet.

Then he grabbed my hand, pulled me to mine and inspected me. Literally looked me over from head to toe. His hands followed and not in a sexy times way.

“No, I didn’t have cancer,” I said, swatting at his concerned groping. “I had an acoustic neuroma.”

He blinked, set his hands on his hips. “Pretend I’m five.”

I quirked a brow. “That won’t be hard.”

He glared, and not in the way when we bantered. No, a vein throbbed in his neck, and he looked… panicked.

“It’s a slow growing tumor–not cancerous–that encases the cranial nerve.” I tapped my right ear with my pointer finger. “It messes with your hearing. Balance. Other stuff.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “How did you find it?”

“As you know, I carry a gun.”

“We should probably talk about why you’re armed.”

“I’m an FBI agent. What’s your excuse?”

His glare returned. “I like to protect myself. Back to the tumor.”

“After the one radiation treatment, it’s a hundred percent gone.”

His shoulders actually drooped. “That’s good, sweetheart.”

“I’m not weak,” I countered right away. Most people thought because I had brain surgery–albeit without cutting open my skull–that I needed to be surrounded by bubble wrap or put in a rest home called Shady Acres.

---