“What are you going to tell her?” Dario asks.
“The truth. That we talked. That nothing’s decided. That this is complicated as hell.” He moves toward the door. “But that we’re willing to try. All three of us.”
“When do I get my time with her?” Dario asks.
“Soon as I get back. I’ll tell her. Give her the choice.”
“And if she says no?”
“Then we respect that.” Saul holds his gaze. “But I don’t think she will.”
“Bennett,” I say when he reaches the door.
He turns.
“Thank you.” My voice is rough. “For coming here. For offering witness protection.” I stop. “For not putting her in a cage made of good intentions.”
“Don’t thank me yet. This could still be a disaster.”
“Probably will be.” I almost smile again. “But at least we tried.”
“Yeah.” He opens the door. “At least we tried.”
This is going to hurt. The only question is whether it hurts her.
Chapter Thirty-Two
STEVIE
The morning starts normal.
Well. Normal for a woman living under a fake name in a small Colorado town, running a bakery she technically doesn’t own, sleeping in a dead woman’s identity while making heart eyes at three men who should’ve figured out I’m a feral raccoon in lipstick by now.
Just your standard, average day in witness protection, pining after men who don’t seem to mind sharing custody of my questionable morals.
Super normal. Maybe even above average.
Still no word from Dario, unless you count Saul’s cryptic “he wants to court you” bullshit. I’m unclear if that means flowers or, like, a PowerPoint on why he deserves my panties again.
Enzo’s gone AWOL on a need to think bender that Saul’s being odd about. I’m supposed to respect that it’s classified. Instead, I just mainline carbs and miss him in increasingly embarrassing ways.
I’m pulling the first batch of croissants from the oven when the bell over the door chimes. Early for customers, I haven’t evenflipped the sign yet, so I assume it’s Martha, who’s decided that opening hours are more of a suggestion than a rule.
It’s not Martha.
It’s a delivery guy. Young. Nervous. Holding an arrangement of flowers so elaborate it looks like it ate three smaller arrangements for breakfast.
“Zoey Carter?” he asks.
“That’s me.” The name lands in my mouth like a loose tooth, wrong, but I’m used to chewing on it.
He sets the flowers on the counter. Roses, deep red, almost black at the edges. Peonies in soft pink. Eucalyptus and something else I can’t identify woven throughout. The kind of arrangement that costs more than my monthly grocery budget.
“Have a good day,” he says, and escapes before I can ask questions.
I stare at the flowers.
There’s a card. Small. Cream-colored. Expensive paper.
