Page 90 of Glitter Rose
I continue pushing toward the mess hall, where breakfast is winding down. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Someone leaves the mess hall, holding the door for us and revealing the long tables filled with people finishing their meals while talking and laughing. Heads turn as we enter, curious eyes landing on Paris.
Her shoulders hunch.
“It’s okay,” I say. “They’re just nosy bastards.”
She relaxes slightly, but then perks up, her spine going rigid. “I know them.”
“What?” I follow her gaze across the room, where Liv and Walsh sit huddled over cups of coffee.
“Those two.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “They’re the ones I saw. The ones—” She turns, eyes narrowing. “You said you didn’t know them.”
Fuck. I’d forgotten about that particular lie. “I might have… stretched the truth.”
“You lied. You knew exactly who they were.”
Walsh spots us, nudging Liv, who regards us with that trademark blank face.
“Yes.” I crouch beside Paris’s chair. “They were looking for me. If I’d admitted it then…”
“You would’ve left.”
“And missed out on your pasta? Not a chance.”
Her eyes shine with tears. “You?—”
“I’m sorry.” I cup her cheek. “I’m a selfish asshole.”
Her laugh breaks through the tension, but it’s cut short by a wince. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I want pancakes. Do they have pancakes here? I’ve been dreaming about them.”
“Even our apocalypse paradise has standards.” I straighten, my hand lingering on her shoulder. “We can make that happen.”
Walsh and Liv move toward us, Liv’s face remaining impassive, and Walsh’s face breaking into that shit-eating grin that usually means I’m about to get my ass handed to me verbally.
“The mysterious woman has awakened.” Walsh stops at a respectful distance from Paris’s chair. “I’m Walsh. This is Liv.”
“We’ve met,” Paris murmurs. Now, she’s shy? “Sort of. Through Bino.”
“Bino?” His eyebrows shoot up as he exchanges glances with Liv. “That a?—”
“Binoculars,” I say. “She was checking the streets.”
Liv’s mouth twitches, the closest she gets to smiling most days.
“Were you looking for him?” Paris points at me.
“He has a habit of not checking in.” Walsh shoots me a look. “We thought the worst when he didn’t return.”
“He was busy falling off my fire escape,” Paris says.
He barks out a laugh. “That’s not what he told us.”
“Walsh,” I growl.
“So you’re his friends?” Paris asks.
