Page 34 of Sinful Promise
“Huh?” I search back through our conversation. “Fentone?”
“Dinner!” he barks out. “Get me back for what?”
“For… paying?” As we round the next flight and continue up, I cast him a sideways look. “I don’t understand your bad mood.”
“I’m your husband,” he growls. “We haveusmoney now. Not mine and yours.”
“Well, that’s awkward,” I choke out a laugh. “Because my salary still goes intomybank account. And I spent a decent chunk ofourmoney this morning on cheese.”
“Cheese?”
“Mm. Blue vein,” I sigh. “It was French, and delicious on crackers.” As we approach our door, I use his strength to lean on, and smile up at him till his face softens. “That was my lunch while you were searching for a hit-and-run driver. You didn’t catch them, did you?”
He unlocks the front door and holds it open for me to pass. “Nope. It wasn’t the wife, despite Aubs’he was cheating and she got madguess. For now, no one else is popping. And like you already said, hit-and-runs are notoriously difficult to solve.”
“Did you confirm if he was cheating?” Crossing the threshold, I leave Archer behind and head straight to the fridge in the middle of our kitchen. Not for a drink or a snack, but to grab my medication from inside, and the tourniquet from the basket above. “Because maybe it was the girlfriend.”
“Well, Whitney Patterson says they were blissfully happy and had no troubles at all.” Closing the front door, and setting my briefcase on the floor, Archer turns back to lock up and toss his keys in the little bowl nearby. “According to her, there was no way he was cheating. The kid said the same. And it’s not like the vic is talking, so we can’t ask him.”
“So what are you gonna do?” I snatch a candy bar from the pantry, since I’ve discovered that eating sugar while infusing tends to minimize my headaches. Finally, laden with my supplies, I wander past Archer on my way to the couch, my lips curling up into a smirk when his hand trails over my hip bone when we’re close enough to touch. “How do you intend to solve this case?”
He takes a soda from the fridge, slamming the door shut so I hear the seal reengage from where I am, then he follows me to the living room and sits on the coffee table before taking from me the white box holding my factor pack. Inside that are the two small glass bottles that need to be mixed together.
I stand again to go wash my hands, since I’m the one who’ll be managing my needle, but I watch Archer work. His quick movements as he uses an alcohol wipe to clean his hands. Then his focused stare as he takes each bottle in his grip, and then the double-ended needle to join the two.
He was terrified the first time he saw me infuse. Horrified the next time, when I offered to let him prepare the factor. But now, all these months later, he does the work with steely concentration.
His furrowed brows might be my favorite feature on his face. The way he stares, and controls his fingers so he doesn’t inadvertently cross-contaminate or introduce germs to my medication.
I could love him purely because he’s a good man. Or because he’s selfless. Kind. Amazing in bed. I have a million reasons to adore him. But I think the care he takes when mixing my factor might be the trait I love most.
Coming back into the living room and sitting on the edge of the couch, I peer across and grin to find him rolling the bottle and reconstituting my medication. “Arch? The hit-and-run?”
“I’m hoping the debris and shit left on the road will turn something up. Once they finish running it through the lab, maybe they can pinpoint a make and model of the car for me. Then I can go from there.”
Considering, I glance down and fix the tourniquet on my arm. “Sounds reasonable.” Then I clean the inside of my elbow, grab the butterfly needle, and slide it into a thick vein that shines bright against my pale skin. “What about Fentone’s case?”
“Everyone is saying it’s the fucking vigilante.” His jaw clenches with restrained anger, but his touch remains gentle as he finishes mixing and moves on to pulling the clear liquid into a large syringe. “Every asshole wants to pin it on some caped crusader. It’s pissing me off.”
“Well…” I tape my needle in place and unsnap my tourniquet, letting it fall to the couch, then accepting Archer’s filled syringe, I connect it to my tubing and start infusing. Slowly. Carefully. The gentler I am, the less tired I become. “Since the vigilante is a faceless, nameless nobody,” setting my speed, I look up and meet Archer’s troubled green eyes. He’s seen me infuse countless times now, but he still worries. Still wishes he could take my hemophilia away. “Why don’t you lean into this mystery killer angle? The vigilante has never been caught. They haven’t even been declared a man or a woman.”
“You,” he ducks his head to force me to meet his stare, “are the vigilante, Mayet. Excuse me for not feeling comfortableleaningthat way.”
“But no one else on the planet knows I connect,” I protest, averting my gaze. “So let Fletch pin this to that mystery killer. Then Fentone becomes another unsolved murder, just like the others who came before.”
“You make it sound really fucking simple.” He snarls in one breath, but reaches out in the next and takes my syringe. His hands shake, but he works hard to still them. “Can I do this?”
“Of course.”
While he works, I snatch up my candy bar, one-handed, and use my teeth to tear the packaging open.
“And itcanbe simple.” I spit the trash from my mouth, only to blush when the plastic flutters to a stop in my lap. “Just like Justin Dowel’s case. You search for evidence, find none, and let the case go. Another asshole is off the streets, and no one has to know any different. Have you called Cato yet? He left a couple messages in my voicemail today, but none said what he wanted. Just that we should call back.”
“I’m concerned with how easy you think it is tonotsolve a case.” But slowly, he brings his eyes up and meets mine. “And no. I still didn’t get to call him.” Leaning toward the clock on the wall—coincidentally still on New York time, because I haven’t changed it since my move—he sits straight again and tilts his chin. “It’s still early there, so call him now. He wasn’t blowing upmyphone, Mayet. Seems he wantsyourattention.”
“If it was Felix filling my voicemail, you wouldn’t be encouraging me to make contact.” Snickering, I grab my device and set it on my thigh. Then, still using one hand, I unlock the screen and navigate to my call log.
I haven’t saved his number yet—it felt too formal, too…weirdto have Cato Malone in my speed dial after havingjustmet the kid—but Archer is insisting I reach out, and Cato has been persistent all day long.
