Page 176 of Menace in Vegas

He got them for me. Before I barged in demanding answers. Before I told him he wasn’t treating me like a partner. Before I realized how far he’d already gone trying to protect me.

Guilt hits fast and sharp, slicing clean through my chest.

I move toward them, gently brushing a fingertip over a petal.

It’s soft and fragile. Still beautiful, even as it droops.

Just like this weird space we’re in now.

We’re still us. Still in love.

But we’re under threat.

And slowly realizing that “safe” isn’t something we get to take for granted anymore.

I’m about to sit down when the door swings open and chaos breezes in.

“Did I miss anything dramatic?” Gram asks, sunhat slightly askew, wine spritzer in one hand and a plate of fruit skewers in the other. “My favorite episode was on. Sophia was savage with her insults. I felt it in my soul.”

She sets the fruit on the table, eyeing the flowers. “What happened here?”

I blink. “What?”

“Ohhhh…” She points a glittery artificial nail at the bouquet. “Knew it. Was it your first fight? My ESP told me something was off with you two.”

“ESP?”

“Emotional Sass Perception.” She moves to the table. “My knees started aching during Blanche’s monologue and I justknew. I said to myself, ‘That poor girl’s about to go toe-to-toe with the hockey hunk.’ I was obviously right.”

“I didn’t realize ESP was connected to joint pain.”

“It’s all connected when you’re seasoned,” she replies, taking a dramatic bite of fruit. “You two fight about sex? Or was it about that horrible man watching you earlier?”

I freeze. “You saw him?”

Gram waves a hand. “Oh, I didn’tseehim. But Ifelthim. The energy around you went weird. My psychic radar isverysensitive after sangria and sugar.”

I open my mouth.

Close it again.

Of course she knew something was off.

It’s Gram.

She leans in, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Men like Connor are dangerous when you piss them off. Butdeadlywhen they go full feral mode.”

I stare at her.

For once… I think she might be right.

79

CONNOR

When I walk back into the bungalow, I clock two things instantly.

The first is Allie, standing beside the kitchen table, her fingers gently stroking the wilting petals of the flowers I bought this morning.

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