Page 90 of Shatterproof

Carelessly dropping my gym bag near the island he’s occupying occurs prior to me putting my gun case down on the surface. “Not in the mood, Blu.”

“Don’t recall asking if you wanted a little ‘happy ending’ to your outing.”

Man…when was the last time I even rubbed one out?

Has it really been that long?

Is that why the shit with Seventeen has managed to get so deep under my goddamn skin?

Is that why I’m so fucking tense all the time?

Is that why I almost ripped the door from its hinges?

“What’s going on?” He asks at a much lower volume than I expect.

“Why the fuck are you whisperin’?”

“Because Arley’s napping on the couch.”

Craning my neck slightly to the side gives me a picture-perfect shot of her curled up under the new hot pink and purple throw blanket I ordered her last week.

Ever since she’s moved in, I’ve done an odd amount of shopping.

We’re talking an embarrassing amount.

But I can’t help it.

I want her to feel like this place is home.

And she feels at home when she’s surrounded by brightly colored shit.

Nowadays, my penthouse appears to be sponsored by fucking Crayola.

Don’t even get me started on the overly vibrant display area she bullied me into displaying my flag and medals in.

They’d take them all back if they saw it.

I let a small smile cross my expression and meet his eyes once more. “How long she been out?”

“About an hour.” He casually shuts his laptop. “She started working on the dessert menu for that engagement shower thing again and ended up stressing herself out, so she put on some baking shows, which made me hungry, but-”

“Calmedherdown.” The grin on my face thoughtlessly widens. “They always calm her down.”

Blu kicks his chin in my direction. “Same way she always calmsyoudown.”

There’s no denying the accusation as I give the nape of my neck a good squeeze. “Better than a five-mile run ever could.”

“Five miles?” My partner gawks in disgust. “What the fuck are you running five miles for? Were you being chased by the Yakuza again?”

“It was cardio day.”

“And?” Bewilderment quickly takes hold. “Isn’t your brother a professional hockey player, not cross country?”

“Like I said…” mirth remains in my gaze, “it was cardio day.”

“Fuckkkkk,” he grumbles during a headshake. “I hate cardio day.”

“He said the same shit.”

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