Page 77 of Eyes in the Shadows

“My brother always said that a man ought not to have too many vices, but good champagne makes life worth living,” he says poetically, looking at the fine bubbles rising up the side of the glass.

“So was your brother the one who said the thing about engineering a relationship?”

There’s a beat, and he takes a sip to hide a smile. Then, a car door slams closed outside, just audible in the silence of the kitchen. “Ah, there he is. See? I told you he was right behind us,” Wesley says. He tops me off one last time and stands, picking up the half-full bottle, then his drink from the base of its thin stem. “I’ll leave you two.”

“Wesley?”

“Yes, love?”

“Thanks for waiting with me. And for the champagne.”

He lifts his glass in a “cheers” kind of acknowledgment.

I wasn’t even aware I had the capacity for so many feelings at once. I take a drink from my glass to give myself something to do as they all come swirling in like the wind through the open front door. I’m debating rising from the table—now that I’m calmer and the first glass of too-quickly-consumed champagne has gone to my head, it feels less urgent to meet him in the foyer—when he comes into the kitchen.

Mac’s smile for me is exhausted, but warm. “I just followed my nose. What are you still doing up, darlin’?”

“Waiting for you,” I reply truthfully. I lift the glass. “And having a drink with Wesley.”

“Oh? Where’d he go?”

“Back into his office. They got back a bit before you; he told me you were okay.”

He grabs a beer from the fridge and moves to join me at the table. “We usually all have a drink together when we get back from a successful mission. Guess this one’s not quite over yet, though.”

I perk up a little. “It’s not?”

The cap of his drink twists off with a little hissing noise. “Not yet. We didn’t get him, but we set something in motion to.” He motions to the mess still sitting on the counter with his index finger extended from his grip around the bottle. “What’s all this?”

“Nervous cooking,” I say with a laugh. “I’m glad you’re home safe.”

“Me, too.” He sits in the chair Wesley vacated, and pats his knee. “Come here, I want to hold you.”

I put the flute down on the table. “Mac,” I begin hesitantly. “I’m really not a lap girl.”

He shakes his head. “Give me your foot, then. I just need my hands on you.”

There’s a flash of excitement low in my belly at that, then I register the words. He sounds uncharacteristically uneasy. I shift my chair back and around the corner of the table so I can better face him.

“Are you okay?” I ask, lifting my bare foot slowly and placing it on his knee.

He slides his fingers under the arch and I have to bite back a giggle—it’s maybe the only place on my body I’m ticklish. He starts squeezing, and holds out his other hand like he wants me to give him my right foot, too. So, I do. My core starts pounding—another Pavlovian response to being slightly open, spread, and near him.

But it occurs to me that he’s being almost a little… distant. He didn’t just come right for me when he entered the room. Usually, he grabs me from behind, or drops a kiss on my upturned mouth even before he says hello.

And he only further confirms my suspicions as he avoids my eye when he says, “I know tonight was different than when I killed that guy in the steam room. I wasn’t sure you’d let me touch you again, knowing what I did.”

My head whips up from its slight downward tilt, as I’d been watching his huge hands dwarf my perfectly-normally sized feet. I’m shocked at the admission, then contrite. That’s my fault. I made him feel that way. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t say it to make you apologize. And you shouldn’t apologize for not being okay with what I do.”

I inhale, take a sip of the champagne to center myself, and prepare to dive into Wesley’s advice. No doing this by halves. “Tell me what happened. I want to know.”

He eyes me, searching my face, then resumes his careful kneading of the arches of my feet. “Rossi is in hiding, so we have to try to draw him out. We got control of the weapons shipment; it’s sitting in a warehouse where no one would ever think to look. It’s going to really piss off the buyer, and Rossi will hopefully take it personally. Well, the stealing and what I did. I stayed behind after the truck left to… send a message.”

I know what that means. “And how many people did you—”

“Three. And all of them were Rossi’s top guys. Real scumbags.”

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