Page 30 of His Pretty Little Lies
The bunker is the least crazy thing around here. Now, the hole. That's a place no one wants to go.
“Uncle Ronan’s wife?—”
“Marks.”
“Marks.” I nod, not shocked that she’s keeping up on anything I tell her. “Her father is a bit of a doomsday prepper. Old habits die hard.”
“You guys are so freaking interesting.” Kinsley holds the pile of folded clothes to her chest. “I’m going to get ready.”
“And I’ll get you coffee.” I stand. Kinsley starts to turn her head toward the bathroom, but I grab her wrist, pulling her back to me. I drop my mouth to hers, giving her a quick kiss before she can protest.
“I need to brush my teeth,” she huffs when I break the kiss.
“Then get to it.” I give her ass a small smack that earns me a glare that doesn’t help the hard-on I have. I watch her disappear into the bathroom before I head back downstairs to get her coffee and her normal lunch.
A sexy hum leaves Kinsley when she takes her first sip of coffee. Mom went ahead and took Nix to school, Damon stayed after practice, so it’s only the two of us.
“I’m not a morning person,” she admits.
“I am.”
“Oh, I noticed.” Kinsley takes a bite of the breakfast sandwich I made her. “Any updates?”
“Not yet, but when I know, you’ll know.”
"Do you think the killer could go to our school?"
"Everyone is a suspect until they're not." I glance over at her. "Including you," I tease.
"Shut up." She takes another giant bite of her sandwich, flakes from the croissant falling everywhere. "Sorry."
"As long as you eat, I don't give a shit." It can be cleaned up.
"Are you sure? Your room was rather clean."
“Don’t say things I don’t mean,” I tell her. “To you at least.”
"So you'll lie to others."
“If I need to, yeah.” Why wouldn’t I? That makes her smile, so I know she must agree. I’m sure she’s had to tell a few lies to get a story.
“We just won’t lie to each other, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s not a lie, right?”
“It’s not a lie,” I chuckle. I reach over and place my hand on her bare thigh. I relax when she places one of her hands over mine.
“You know, people are going to talk,” Kinsley says when we pull through the gates of our school. I couldn’t care less what people say. I’m already used to it coming from the family that I do. It’s not just about me this time, though.
“I told you, you should write a piece on us for the paper. What’s that called, like a poof piece?”
“Puff piece.” She snorts a laugh. “And you can’t write about yourself.”
“Sure, you can; people write whole books about themselves. I’ll write it,” I offer, trying to get her to smile. It’s all I can do at the moment to relieve some of her stress about us showing up at school together.
I don’t think Kinsley’s concern is about people seeing us together. It’s more about not wanting the attention. She’s said more than once that she wants to report the news, not be it.
