Page 50 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"Capabilities?" Vanessa interjects. "You make me sound like a weapon system."
You are one, I think, watching her fingers tap a rhythm against her thigh.
Kade continues outlining operational parameters while Vanessa fidgets beside me. Her knee bounces rhythmically, shaking the couch cushion in tiny vibrations that travel across my legs. Each movement feels like sandpaper against my nerves.
Without conscious thought, my hand moves to her knee, pressing down firmly. The bouncing stops.
Her skin is warm beneath my palm. Soft. I should remove my hand.
I don't.
"We'll need complete digital forensics on the Paradise Elite connection," Kade says, but his eyes have dropped to where my hand rests on Vanessa's leg.
Alina's knowing glance doesn't miss the gesture either. Her eyes meet mine through the screen, one eyebrow arched in silent question.
I feel exposed. Compromised. Yet I still don't move my hand.
"I'll send encrypted packets through our usual channels," I respond, voice steady despite the heat spreading up my arm from where I touch Vanessa.
When the call ends, Vanessa springs up from the couch and heads straight for my kitchen. I follow, watching as she casually shifts my coffee canister three inches to the left and places her mug in the empty space.
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out rough.
"Making room." She shrugs, not even looking at me. "If I'm staying here, I need a designated mug spot."
The urge to move everything back to its precise location wars with something else. A strange satisfaction at seeing her mark on my space.
I stare at her coffee mug sitting out of alignment with everything else on my counter. My fingers twitch with the need to restore order, yet I remain frozen, watching as she opens another cabinet with casual disregard for my system.
"Do you want eggs?" Vanessa moves to my refrigerator and begins rifling through it. Her small form disappears behind the door as she bends to examine the lower shelf.
I force my gaze away. "Top shelf. Left side. Behind the protein shakes."
She emerges with the carton, setting it on the counter two inches from its designated spot. My jaw tightens.
"Oh, my god." Her voice rises with delight as she opens my pantry. "You color-code your protein bars?"
Before I can stop her, she's pulling them out, stacking them in no discernible pattern. The carefully arranged gradient from chocolate to vanilla to berry now scattered in disarray.
"I like order." My voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
She doesn't look up as she begins rearranging them by flavor rather than color. "And I like complex patterns. Guess we'll have to find a middle ground."
The statement hangs between us, loaded with implications beyond my kitchen organization. Her small hands move with surprising efficiency, creating a new system that makes no logical sense to me.
"Flavor matters more than color," she explains, though I haven't asked. "Who cares if it looks pretty on the shelf if you grab a mint chocolate when you wanted peanut butter?"
"They're protein bars. The flavor is irrelevant. The nutritional content..."
"Is exactly what I'd expect you to care about." She laughs, the sound unexpectedly bright in my austere kitchen.
She moves past me, deliberately bumping her hip against mine as she reaches for a pan. That simple touch sends currents through my entire body, making my muscles go rigid like I'm preparing for a crash.
I take a measured breath. "You could ask before rearranging my things."
"You could say 'thank you' for making breakfast." She cracks eggs with one hand, a surprisingly fluid motion for someone so prone to fidgeting.
My fingers tighten around my coffee mug as she disrupts another system, mixing spices I never combine, adding ingredients in the wrong order. Yet the smell filling my kitchen is maddening, rich and complex, where my cooking is merely functional.
