Page 86 of Shadow Of Sin

CHAPTER 20

WOLFE

Eva moved the Cheerios.

Not far. About six inches to the left. She was reorganizing the kitchen cabinets in the guest wing because apparently, she can’t function in a space that isn’t arranged according to her standards, and she shifted the box to make room for the mugs she decided needed to be closer to the coffee maker.

Six inches. That’s all. And my brain has been stuck on it for the past twenty minutes.

I know it’s stupid. I know the Honey Nut Cheerios tastes the same whether the box is six inches to the left or six inches to the right. I know that a grown man standing in a kitchen staring at a cereal box because someone moved it is not a great look.

But my hand keeps reaching for the spot where it was. And it’s not there. So every time that happens, my brain sends a small error signal that I have to manually override, which takes about two seconds, which means I’ve lost roughly forty seconds of my morning to a box of goddamn cereal.

Completely fucking irrational.

But it’s how I’m built, so fighting it seems like a waste of energy.

Eva walks in wearing one of my AC/DC shirts and a pair of shorts that drag my eyes to her long, toned legs. Her hair is wet from the shower, her bare feet padding across the tile floor.

She flashes me a knowing smirk and walks past me to reach into the cabinet for a mug and hits the button on the coffee maker.

“You’re staring at the Cheerios,” she says without turning around.

“You moved them.”

“Six inches.”

“I know.”

“And this is a problem?”

“My hand keeps reaching for where they were.”

She turns and looks at me. Then she reaches over, picks up the Cheerios box, and moves it back to its original position. With a quirk of her lips, she lines it up with the counter edge.

“There,” she says. “Crisis averted.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She leans against the counter and watches me pour cereal into my bowl. “You know, most couples fight about money or sex or whose family is more annoying. We fight about cereal placement.” She stops, her eyes widening like she just choked on her next words. Then she spins away from me and pretends to watch the coffee percolate.

“Not that we’re a couple. I didn’t mean…I’m just saying that if we were, hypothetically, which we aren’t, the cereal thing would be⁠—”

“Eva.”

“Yeah.” She peeks at me over her shoulder.

“You’re spiraling.”

“I know.” She picks up her mug, fills it, and takes a long sip. “Forget I said anything.”

How the hell am I supposed to forget she said it? My brain already grabbed that word and is holding onto it. Tight.

Couple.

She said couple. Hypothetically. But she still said it.

“For the record,” I say, “I wouldn’t fight about the cereal.”