Page 84 of Flint’s Strike

I can still feel Marlene’s eyes on me as I go back to my own work, switching to a green so obnoxious, I’m convinced it’s radioactive. But after a few stitches, I can see the beauty in the way the colors come together.

But if anyone asks, I’ll deny it until the day I die.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Parker

“Shit!”

The tongs slip from my fingers and land on the counter, splattering my shirt with steaming red chile and tomato gravy. My hands are done. The dull, throbbing ache runs from my knuckles all the way to my wrists. I have enough left in me to add the last few pieces of beef to the pot, cover it, and set it to simmer.

Once I’m sure it’s not going to cook too quickly, I pull a bag of peas from the freezer and sink down onto the couch. I alternate hands, the makeshift ice pack in one and a pencil in the other, trying to fill out a crossword puzzle. It doesn’t go well when I try to write with my left. My q looks more like a c, and my b doesn’t look like anything at all.

After twenty minutes, the ache has faded to something manageable. Cubing and browning two pounds of chuck roast? Plus chopping chiles, tomatoes, and herbs? Not smart. But the way Eliot talked about my mom’s cooking…I had to use her recipes.

The pecan pie is cooling on the rack. Fresh bread—started before dawn when I couldn’t get back to sleep—calls my name, but I resist the urge to cut off the heel and shove it into my mouth. Barely.

By five, I’ve showered, plucked, fixed my hair, and changed outfits twice. The sundress leaves my arms bare, ends just above my knees, and clings to my ass in a way I’ve never been totally comfortable with. But when I texted Grace a photo, she told me I’d be a damn fool not to wear it.

I’m giving my hands another ice treatment when my phone vibrates on the counter.

Red or white wine?

Red. I made carne guisada. I hope you like spicy.

You didn’t have to go to that much trouble.

If you say “it’s just dinner,” I’m changing my address.

It’s not “just dinner.” Don’t disappear before we see where this goes.

Okay. But I’m keeping that as my backup plan.

That earns me a rolling-on-the-floor-laughing emoji. Shifting the peas between one hand and the other, I spend ten minutes trying to figure out if there’s a hidden meaning behind that specific graphic. And another five wishing there was. But in the end, I find nothing.

He’s prompt—two quick knocks right at six.

I open the door, and Eliot stands in the heat of the evening sun, wearing a pair of dark Wranglers and a long-sleeved shirt the color of rubies, a single pink rose in one hand, and a reusable grocery bag in the other.

His gaze briefly drops from my face to the way the sundress clings to my body, then lifts again. “Wow.”

I take a step back, going for casual but probably landing closer to stiff than anything else. “Come on in.”

My apartment feels somehow smaller and cozier with him in it. Less of a place I exist and more of a place I want to be.

“It smells amazing in here.” Eliot wanders toward the kitchen, takes one look at the pecan pie and fresh bread, and turns back to me. “You made all of this?”

“I don’t get an excuse to cook much. I had to prove I still remember how.” The small smile feels forced. Everything feels forced at the moment.

Eliot sets the grocery bag on the counter next to the pie, and turns to offer me the rose. “It ain’t much, but…”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” I grab a pint glass from the cabinet and fill it with water for the bloom, shrugging as I cut the end of the stem and place it in the water. “I don’t actually own a vase.”

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” Eliot says, stepping close enough I catch the scent of his cologne. Something woodsy and warm that draws me in. “You deserve flowers often enough to need at least one.”

My first instinct is to deflect. To tell him I work so much, any flowers I get will wither and die, unappreciated. Instead, I swallow the brutal honesty. “So…what are we havin’ for breakfast?”

“It’s a surprise.” Eliot’s brown eyes crinkle at the edges. He pulls a bottle of cabernet from the bag, sets it on the counter, and gestures to my fridge. “Can I?”