Page 24 of Splintered Security
“Personal business.”
“Congratulations.”
I give a chin lift before turning and walking away. We’re not chicks. I don’t need to gush and compare rings.
Of all the things that calm me down, none are available to me right now. Hitting a punching bag is one. Sex is another. A decent run or a good hike will do when the others aren’t available.
I’m contemplating all this while fighting the niggling sensation that Anni is involved in this mess.
She was in the building. She came home with me. She asked me to bind myself to her legally.
I’ve been distracted. Unusually so, actually.
A bomb came into my place of work under my nose. By way of one of my own employees. And there’s a tie—a very real and binding tie—to my wife.
But how?
And why?
I drive faster than I need to on the way home. It’s the only outlet I have right now, and my suspicions are making me less and less comfortable with Anni being in my house alone.
I don’t know whether I need protection for her or protection from her. My gut says it’s the former. And my gut is solid.
But the timing is damning.
Anni
I’m in the pantry when Ren returns. I swear he’s going to think I have an eating disorder or something. I’m hungry and brunch burned through me hours ago. So has the fruit I found in the fridge after I got the laundry sorted and what little I own hung in his closet.
“Are you okay?” My brows scrunch together until his stern features soften a bit when he sees me.
“Yeah.” He tags me around the shoulders and pulls me out of the pantry and into a hug. He kisses the top of my head, and his body sags as if he’s exhaling for the first time since he left the house.
I look up into his face. “Bad meeting?”
“Just work.” He looks from me over my head into the pantry. “Are you hungry or hiding?”
“Hungry. I thought about cooking but didn’t know when you’d be home.”
He looks down into my eyes. His navy ones are warm and soft instead of the cold and sharp of when he first arrived.
“I’m not much of a cook,” I continue. “But I don’t burn water, so I’m not totally useless.”
“Well, let’s get you fed. And then I want to discuss Pueblo.”
I nod into his chest and let go. “What can I do?”
“Want to make the salad while I get the rest?”
“Sure, but I want wine if we’re going to talk about Pueblo.”
He holds my eyes for a longer than necessary moment, but nods. “Sure, Sunshine. Red or white?”
I shrug. “Surprise me.”
We move through the kitchen like two people who have never tried tandem cooking together. Which is to say, we’re always in each other’s way, somehow always blocking the place the other needs to be, and generally inefficient. But it’s comfortable.
He pours me a chilled white wine and himself a bourbon. I finish the salad and bail to a stool at the bar again, watching him masterfully make a dinner that looks beautiful while appearing easy to prepare.
