Page 47 of ILY
Something about the way he says that gets to me. I hum softly and drag him in, curling fingers around his jaw and holding him while I take a long, slow, deep kiss. I keep finding myself wanting to take care of this poor, chaotic bastard.
I want to wrap him up and feed him soup and then fuck him into a cum-coma so he can get some rest for once. Instead of doing all that, I kiss him a second time, then pull away.
“Sit down. I’ll be right back.” Then something occurs to me. “Is there a basement in here?” One thing I didn’t look for and forgot to ask about, which is amateur hour for me. The basement is always the first place I should look when trying to find a body. Or a missing person.
Or both.
He shrugs against my hands. I can see the motion in the glow of his light. “I don’t think so. I think there’s like a half-cellar thing, but the door hinges are rusted shut, and frankly, I don’t even want to know what my aunt was keeping in there. Probably old Costco Y2K food or something.”
He sounds like he’s telling the truth, but I make a note to take a deeper look once I have the chance.
Using my phone as a flashlight—because he doesn’t need to know I keep a mini Maglite along with a gun in my ass holster—I scour the house. Eventually, I find the fuse box in the laundry room. The two machines are newer, but the place, like everything else, is in desperate need of repair.
God, what would life be like if he weren’t a maybe-killer and he and I could be a thing? I could help him with all this. I’m about to retire, after all. We could rip out the apple trees and plant something he can eat. We can fix up the garden and protect it against vindictive rodents…
Shit, now I’m buying into his fucking groundhog fantasy.
I shake my head, shoving the thoughts away as I open the little door and see that a fuse did indeed blow. I flip the three switches that are sitting the wrong way, and I feel a buzzing against my fingers. Seems like success.
When I come into the kitchen, Leaf is giving a Deaf applause.
I take a bow, and he jumps up from his seat and kisses me soundly. ‘My hero,’ he signs.
I roll my eyes, but fuck, that makes me feel some type of way. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself if he’s actually guilty. Or what my boss will do to me. Getting involved with a criminal. What the fuck am I thinking? And god, if he actually is guilty and I have to see evidence that he’s hurt someone.
Or someones.
And I’ll have to testify.
I shake that thought away. It’s better for my mental health not to think about it. Part of me just wants to ask him directly because I think he’ll be honest.
It’s not like he knows I’m with the FBI. Maybe he trusts me enough to tell the truth.
‘Sit,’ I sign back at him, then point firmly to the chair he’s just abandoned. His bottom lip juts out adorably, and I can’thelp but dart in and bite it before pushing him back until he does what I asked in the first place.
As he sits in the chair, he gives me a sassy look, folding his arms across his chest. I want to crawl between his legs and do things to him, but instead, I turn my back on him to take the chicken out of the air fryer. I don’t trust the electrical wiring in the house, but as I rummage through the cabinets, I find a cast-iron pan that looks very well seasoned.
“It’s not going to taste as good as having it grilled, but if you give me a few minutes, you’ll thank me.”
“Oh, I’ll thank you plenty, don’t you worry,” he rumbles.
I flush, feeling his gaze on me as I’m finishing up the dinner, and then something in the room shifts. I don’t know how to explain it, but Ifeelit. And when I turn, I see him slumped over his arms, soundly asleep.
My heart twists. He’s obviously exhausted from digging that hole, but it seems like more than that. Maybe it’s his life. Or maybe being a killer is harder than most people expect. All that stress and anxiety.
But my well-trained gut is telling me that really isn’t it. That there’s something else going on with him.
Switching the burner off, I rummage around some more until I find something that can be used as a tea tray, and instead of waking him, I plate everything and walk it to his bedroom. It looks much the same as it did the first time I saw it. The bed is messy, and there are clothes in piles near the bathroom door and unpacked boxes stacked in the corner near the window.
It’s very chaotic. Very…him.
Setting the tray on the nightstand, I turn back and head to the kitchen. I hate the thought of waking him. He looks peaceful, but I also don’t think he’ll thank himself or me if I let him stay there all night. Plus, he needs to eat. Desperately.I can’t imagine how many calories he burned digging that fucking…
No, I’m not going to call it a grave.
I debate shaking him, then decide fuck it. I’m older, but not that old. I scoop him up in my arms, and his head lolls onto my shoulder. He’s a heavier weight than I’ve managed in a while, especially when he stirs and his eyes snap open.
“Are you…carrying me?” His voice is sleep-thick and soft against my ear. “I thought we were having dinner.”
