Page 45 of Bishop's Queen

“He wanted a picture, Bishop. An inconsequential picture.” She closed her eyes, recalling the entire scene. “And you pulled a gun on him.”

Slamming to a stop, he glared at the front entryway as though it was a danger zone. “We rounded a corner, and a lunatic was waiting, ready to come at you.”

“It was a water balloon filled with gunk.”

Bishop closed the distance, towering over her. “Do you think I had time to process what was in his hand?” Even with a sheen of drying green film over his skin and clothes, his serious attitude was inescapable. “Action, reaction. Incoming assault? You bet your ass I was prepared to defend what was mine to protect.”

His to protect?

Bishop took her hand, lifting her wrist, inspecting her arm, turning it enough to see that her elbow had been scraped. “I’m sorry that I manhandled you.” For as angry as his lecture had been, his fingertips were feather light. “I had to get between you and the unknown.”

He didn’t think, simply put himself in the line of danger. Talk about perspective. Gone was the embarrassment from kissing him and the adrenaline from the ambush. Emotionally tapped, all she could manage was, “Thanks.”

Had she said that yet? Had she said it enough?

“I have to keep you safe,” Bishop whispered. “It’s what I do, Ella.”

A waterless, legless lightness ran through her. Each breath, each thought reminded her that his sacrifice was on a level of selflessness that she didn’t deserve.

Wow.

Bishop was ready to give so much when she deserved so little. Served her right for being aroused simply by the blink of his green eyes and getting nothing in return but a pity kiss.

“So…” She hated how her insides craved him. “Errands tonight are shot.”

He broke away, turning his head. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“You can shower real quick while I wash your shirt. Your jeans seem fine. Just get it out of your hair.”

“I’m good.” Bishop took a step back, running his hand into his hair, but his fingers got stuck in the tangle of dried goo.

Ew.She made a face. “That’s disgusting. Shower. My shower doesn’t have cooties, and don’t worry, nothing I have is fruity-tooty-foo-foo. You’ll walk out still smelling like a man. No guy-card-stealing soap, I promise.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a pain in the ass. Whatever, I don’t care. Don’t let Furry Baby and Little Kitty lick you. No telling what’s in that stuff.”

“Ella.” He threw his head back and rubbed his temples. “My point exactly. No telling what was in it. Okay. Fine.”

“All right—wait. Hold on.” Ella pulled out her keys as they passed the row of mailboxes.

Bishop rubbed his face, and some of the dried slime flaked off. “You’re checking your mail?”

“It’ll take two seconds.” She twisted the key in the box. Truth was, she wanted to check her mail, needing to find some junk mail to be preoccupied with. But that wasn’t something she would loop him in on. “Cool your jets, Muscles.”

“Nice place you have here, by the way, excluding the slime-throwing asshole.” Bishop brushed past her in the hallway after she had collected the mail. He led the way to the elevators as though he had been in her building a thousand times. “A little overly modern. Even the mailboxes are… artful.”

They didn’t look like mailboxes, more like a piece of seamless metal that opened.

“What’s your place like?”Junk mail!She knew she would have it, despite the amount of times she requested that her name be taken off lists. “Look, this is all unneeded stuff. I need something to be upset about besides me. Do you know how many times I’ve told companies not to do this? How many trees didn’t need to die so I wouldn’t have to recycle it?”

“You do have a focus,” he mumbled.

She shuffled through the papers and envelopes. “Bills, bills, more bills. All of this stuff is on direct debit for a reason. I don’t want the mail. But no, they have to mail me to say they’ve been paid.”

There was a flyer for a Chinese takeout place she would likely never eat at, and—oh, something interesting. An envelope addressed to her, and it was on stationery. Her parents traveled the world—that was where she’d picked up her nomad gene—and treasures and notes came from them in the mail. Even when she’d been a little girl, they’d traveled and sent her letters and gifts, things she’d always treasured.

“Scoot boots, babe.”

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