Page 29 of Make Them Bleed
My pulse stutters.Tracking corporate killers with a mystery man who maybe-kind-of almost kissed me.
“Content,” I repeat, sipping coffee. “Scary sells.”
I can tell Arrow doesn’t buy it, but he lets the topic drop and follows me to the kitchen. Steam curls from our cups; sunlight stripes the counter. For a long beat we just stand there—the humof the fridge, the distant honk of a delivery truck, our breathing interlaced.
He breaks the silence. “I missed you at midnight. Thought we might queue up cheesy trailers, but you ghosted—no pun intended.”
Guilt prickles. “I crashed hard.” Lies stack like Jenga. One yank and everything tumbles.
Arrow steps closer, hip brushing the cabinet next to mine. “You sure you’re okay?”
The concern in his voice is a physical thing. I nod, but my hand trembles when I set the mask down. His gaze tracks the shake; he sets his coffee aside and gently captures my fingers.
Static skates up my arm. Arrow’s thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, exactly where Hoover wiped sweet-and-sour sauce last night. My breath catches, and the kitchen tilts.
“Your heart’s racing,” he murmurs.
“You’re holding my pulse, Einstein.”
His mouth curves, eyes darkening a shade. “Doesn’t usually hammer like this.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Observation noted.”
He steps even closer, bare inches now. The cinnamon of his coffee breath mixes with detergent on his shirt and my knees threaten to betray me. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how broad his shoulders are, how his hair curls just behind his ear, how his lower lip looks bitable?—
I yank my hand away, wrap my arms around myself like a straitjacket. “We should—uh—brainstorm podcast segments.”
Arrow’s expression flickers—hurt, confusion, something I can’t name—before smoothing into the polite mask he wears around strangers. He picks up his coffee. “Sure. I could code a quick poll widget, if you want.”
Great. Crush his feelings, then use his tech skills. Five-star friend, Juno.
I force a smile. “That’d be amazing. Thank you.”
We move to the couch, laptops out, but the tension sits between us like a third cup of too-hot espresso. I keep sneaking glances at him, cataloging similarities:
Voice timbre?Arrow’s is a warm baritone. Hoover’s runs through a vocoder but underneath…maybe?
Height?Same.
Mint-gum scent?Last night Hoover’s tower smelled like mint paste. Arrow chews mint gum obsessively.
Hands?Arrow’s fingers are long and competent, same ones that traced my palm through latex?—
My heart stutters. Could they actually be the same man? It’s absurd…yet thrilling. If Arrow is Hoover, everything snaps into swoony focus; if not, I’m falling for two people at once, which is exactly the plot twist my life doesnotneed.
Arrow clears his throat. “Earth to Final Girl.”
I jump. “Sorry, spacing.”
“Look, if something’s bothering you…” He nudges my knee with his.
Temptation floods me.Ask him to hack Hoover. See his reaction.One sentence and the mystery unravels. But if Hoover is Arrow, that confrontation could blow up in my face—and if Hoover isn’t Arrow, I’d be dragging my best friend into a mess that might get him killed.
I swallow. “Just…creative block.”
Arrow doesn’t push. He leans back, stretching as his shirt pulls taut. My gaze dips to the flash of toned stomach before I jerk it away, cheeks blazing again.
He smirks, catching the micro-look. “Need inspiration?”
