Page 130 of Flint’s Strike

“Parker, you could have nuked a frozen burrito and I’d still think you were amazing. Hell, I’d take a bowl of cereal if it means I get to do this.” Taking the flowers from her hand, I lay them on the counter before wrapping my arms around her.

Parker rests her cheek against my chest. “Sorry. I… My mom cooked these elaborate meals every night when I was a kid. Perfectin’ her recipes before she landed the sous chef job at Comfort Food. So, sometimes I feel like that’s the only way to be…” She shrugs in my arms. “I don’t know.”

No, she really doesn’t. But I do. Parker needs to feel like she’s givin’ more than she gets.

We stay fused together for another few seconds before my stomach betrays me again.

Parker laughs softly against my chest. “I should probably feed you. Don’t want you dyin’ from starvation.”

“I don’t remember eating lunch. Unless cobwebs and dust count as a meal.”

“Ugh. Hardly.”

She pulls away, and the loss of her warmth is almost enough to hurt.

Watching her move through the small space soothes some of the day’s rough edges. Pulling a vase out of the cabinet for the flowers, crisping the tortillas, flipping them onto plates…

But she’s only holding the tongs with the first three fingers of her right hand. The other two shake slightly. One of these days, I hope she’ll tell me about those scars—and what caused them.

Not tonight. Tonight, she’s making me dinner after a long day, and all I want is to be close to her.

“Need any help?” I brace one hand on the closest kitchen chair. My legs are reminding me they’ve had a long damn day, too. But I’m not asking just to be polite. She’s as tired as I am.

“You can get us a couple of Shiners. Then sit. These’ll only be another minute.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She carries two plates to the table, I twist the caps off the bottles, and for a little while, there’s no arson investigation. No missing inspector. No questions we don’t have answers to yet. Just the two of us, and the quiet relief of being somewhere neither of us has to hold everything together.

Parker

The dishwasher swishes softly in the background, and we settle together on the couch. Eliot drapes his arm around my shoulders, my legs are curled under me, and This Old House plays on the TV.

“How far through Nate’s list are you?” I ask, my fingers twisting in the hem of his long-sleeve t-shirt.

“We’ve checked forty-eight properties. Five of those had violations serious enough to issue an order to vacate. Two more had minor issues that could’ve been laziness or lack of training on the inspector’s part. Ain’t sure yet.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I spent the afternoon at the Lutheran church on Laredo. The attic access was designed for a younger man half my size, and I had to squeeze through it multiple times.”

Shit.

My first instinct is to ask what I can do to make his life easier. Take something off his plate. Fix a problem before he even realizes it needs fixing. The thought comes so naturally, I almost say the words.

But then I hear Grace’s voice in my head.

“You don’t need to be useful to earn your place in someone’s life.”

Eliot shifts, pulling me closer against him. On screen, the host is walking through the kitchen renovation, explaining why they’re keeping the original cabinets instead of tearing everything out.

“I’m in the office most of tomorrow,” he says. “We’ve knocked out most of the larger buildings. But that means the crew’s gonna be sendin’ in a fuckton of photos, and I want to check all of ‘em.”

On the TV, the cabinet doors come off one by one, heading into the workshop for refinishing.

“What about your day? Got Kessler in protective custody?”

I fill him in. The drive. The cabin so clean, you could eat off the floor. The scent of bleach.

“He’s either gone to ground, or someone got to him.” I run a hand through my hair, wondering if Denise will ever find out that Kessler really did love her.

We return our focus to the show. Eliot shakes his head when the contractors accidentally punch through a section of lath and plaster while installing a bathroom vanity. His thumb moves slowly along my shoulder.