Page 47 of Tapped

Micah – Your alarm, Evie. Spent the night at your house last night. I know you don’t have a dog. Maybe you need one though.

Me – I don’t have time for a dog.

Micah – Maybe you could make time to open the door.

Ugh.

Totally need to get my shit together.

I disarm my system and flip the locks. When I pull the door open, Micah is standing on my doorstep fisting two brown paper bags in one hand, and a thin box is balanced on the other. A backpack is slung over his shoulder. The aroma of sweet, fresh-baked bread fills my senses as I take in the special agent standing there in a pair of athletic shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes. His hair is the exact opposite of what it was earlier when he had it neatly combed for the funeral.

It’s messy and falling onto his temples and forehead.

My mouth waters right along with my dusty vagina. My vagina for obvious reasons, and my mouth because I haven’t tasted a pastry in a very long time.

He shoves the heavy paper bags into my arms and barges through my house without a hello. “I’m starving, and you sounded like you could use a donut.”

I watch him disappear through the great room and into my kitchen before I shut and lock the front door. When I catch up to him, he’s opened the flat box that’s big enough for a baker’s dozen. Then he grabs the bags out of my arms and unbags enough boxes of Chinese food for six people.

“Who else did you invite?” I ask.

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “I didn’t know what you liked and I didn’t have time for you to text me a dissertation. It was easier just to order a shit ton.”

“I haven’t eaten,” I admit.

“I figured. I haven’t either.” He goes directly to the plates and silverware as if he’s lived here for the last eight years with me.

I peek inside the box to an assortment of the most beautiful donuts I’ve ever seen. They’re all different and loaded with toppings. These aren’t from the grocery store, and I wonder what bakery is open this late. I’ve never seen donuts so fancy. He really went all out.

He pushes a plate in my direction. “Eat up, unless cold kung pao chicken is your thing.”

I’d rather eat a donut, but since he brought me a buffet—and I’ve already offended him tonight … though I have a feeling Micah Emmett doesn’t get offended about much—I take the plate and start to spoon steaming food from the boxes. “This is really nice. Nicer than I deserve after my text string fiasco. I’m sorry about that.”

“You should feel bad.” He shovels a bite of beef and broccoli between his full lips and talks with his mouth full as he helps himself to my refrigerator. “Beer?”

I shake my head. “I’m not a beer drinker.”

He pauses and turns to me with a bottle in his hand. “So this is your husband’s beer?”

“It is,” I confirm on a sigh.

He immediately cracks it open and takes a big pull. “He has shit taste in beer, but he won’t be drinking it anytime soon.”

I hope he’s right.

I go straight to the bottle of wine I opened last night and pour myself a glass. When I get back to the food, he says, “Your husband was arraigned late this afternoon.”

I focus on the box in front of me and pick out as much shrimp as I can find. “That’s what I heard. My brother filled me in.”

“Then you know—no bail.” He turns to me and holds up his bottle. “Congratulations are in order.”

I pull in a breath and wonder how I got to this point in my life that my husband is in jail, it’s not safe for my son to be with me, and a strange DEA agent is in my house on a Friday night drinking Jeff’s beer.

I clink my glass to his bottle as we toast to my husband’s demise. “That is something I never thought I’d drink to, but thank you. It’s a break I didn’t know I needed.”

We both take a big drink. Micah continues to make himself at home in my house and takes his piled-high plate to my sofa and grabs the remote. He switches on the TV, turns on a baseball game and sets the volume to mute.

I don’t watch the game. I watch him, and I fixate on his tattoos.

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