Page 124 of Wicked Proposal
“It is now.” She doesn’t need to know the details, especially not with Eli within earshot.
Her eyes flit to my knuckles. I’ve wiped away the blood, but it takes more than that to fool a nurse. “Oh my God. Did you just?—?”
“Later,” I whisper.
She presses her lips together, but eventually nods. Mia’s always been too smart for her own good. No matter how badly I want to keep this from her, it’s looking less and less likely. She saw those flashes, saw my bruised knuckles, probably heard that P.I.’s screams. She’s probably put two and two together already.
But Eli’s here, so she doesn’t press.
“Did you get what you forgot?” Eli asks.
I pause. “You know what? I think I forgot again.”
He giggles. “You’re silly.”
“You’re the first person to call me that. Though your mom had some choice things to say about me when we met.”
Mia shakes her head. There’s still worry lines on her face, but they’re fading quickly. “Can’t imagine why.”
“You’ve got sauce on your shirt,” Eli says. “Right there.”
I glance down.Shit.So it wasn’t just my jacket that got sprayed.
Mia goes pale for a second, but I dab at the stain with a wet napkin until it’s unrecognizable from actual tomato sauce. “I’m a clumsy eater.”
“You should wear a bib,” Eli suggests. “Like me.”
“Good idea. Next time, I’ll borrow one.”
That draws a snort out of Mia.
Dinner goes smoothly after that. Eli’s a tiny talking machine, always coming up with a topic or a question, all suspiciously related to spies.
To keep him entertained, I tell him about StarTech and the “gadgets” we make. He’s excited to learn all he can about it. By the end of the conversation, he extracts a promise from me to show him around the place.
Belatedly, I realize I actually want to.
Don’t be an idiot,that cold voice inside me snarls.You’re dangerous to be around. And these two? They’re a danger to you. They make you want things. Things you’ve lost.
Things you can never have again.
“Sweetie?” Mia calls, perhaps noticing how quiet I’ve gone. “Why don’t you go pick a movie?”
He doesn’t make her ask twice.
Once he’s out of earshot, she draws closer to me. “Please tell me that’s not my ex’s blood on your shirt.”
“Would it bother you if it was?”
She pauses. “I don’t know. Depends on how much, I guess.”
“That doesn’t sound very Hippocratic of you.”
“Technically, I’m not a doctor.”
I hand her the camera. “It’s not his.”
Her eyes go wide as she flips through the pictures. I’ve already checked them once, so I already know what she’s seeing: herself, photographed by the kitchen window. Herself on my arm, at various events, then at work in her faded scrubs.
