Page 17 of Second Alarm
"Yeah, you told me it was a non-negotiable ambush. That's — that's not — "
"Hanna."
"What."
He looks at me steadily. "It's okay to not have a comeback."
"Shut up."
"Okay."
"I have a comeback. I just don't — I haven't had time to prepare it." Even I don't believe that.
"I believe you."
"I'm famously funny."
He nods slowly, like he's reassuring a toddler. "You're extremely funny, Hanna."
"You're condescending me." I point at him.
"I'm absolutely not condescending you." He presses his lips together, not quite winning. "I'm telling you the truth."
The silence re-forms. He reaches for the mugs in the drying rack, picks one up, and pours coffee into it — doesn't ask how I take it, doesn't put anything extra in it — then sets it on the counter in front of me, wordless, and goes back to drying another mug.
It's black. It's filled to the three-quarter mark and it's perfect.
"Brennan."
"Yeah."
"Rule five."
"You didn't ask me for coffee." Not an ounce of guilt on him.
"Yes."
"I know."
"That was the — "
"I know, Hanna."
"You're — "
"I know."
"Unbelievable." I grumble it into the space between us. "This isn't going to work."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Ty. This isn't going to work."
"I heard you."
"Drink your own damn coffee, Brennan." I point at the mug. It smells incredible, and the last thing I'm going to do right now is drink it.
"It's yours." He points at the mug on the counter.
