Page 70 of Face Off With Fate

“Love it,” I said, tossing a detergent pack in and closing the lid. “Thought I’d be shit at it since I didn’t have one. But it came as naturally as hockey did. Well, naturally might be a stretch. One time, I panicked because her skin started lookin’ orange.” A laugh slipped out. “Turned out I’d fed her too many carrots. Didn’t know that was a thing, or that you had to watch out for them sticking pieces of toast up their nose…”

Silence. Nothing but the rush of water filling the drum.

I pulled my eyes away from the dials, curious at her silence. My stomach dropped at the thought that maybe I’d shared too much, and she wasn’t interested in our lives like I’d thought.

That theory disappeared when I saw her face.

She stared at where her fingers picked at the edge of a page, but I didn’t think she was seeing them. Her shoulders rounded in, making her look small—vulnerable. Thatcher got the same way sometimes when he’d come over.

“Daddy issues?” My comment did the trick.

A bitter laugh spilled out from her pouty lips, and a hint of pink washed up her cheeks.

“Is it that obvious?”

Relief crashed into my chest that she was talking again.

I shook my head and reached for the lowball of amber liquid. I’d poured it earlier, needing something stronger than water to handle her in our space.

Our dining table.

Our bedtime routine.

“Not obvious at all.” I slid a glance her way. “The way you spaced out while tearing at your notebook seemed totally normal. Oh, and the look of disappointment and heartbreak, also very inconspicuous,” I deadpanned over the rim of my glass.

Her lips tugged up in a wry smile, those little flames back to dancing in her pupils.

My blood pumped harder. I rooted my feet in place, allowing the bite from the top of the washer pressing into my back to ground me so I didn’t close the three feet between us.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she said, but there was no malice in her tone.

Whiskey warmed my throat, a welcome reprieve from the emotions her smile dredged up. Those glossy lips had me thinking about practicing kissing.

With her.

The woman had to be a mind reader, or my thoughts were written on my forehead, because her pink tongue snaked out, wetting her bottom lip before she trapped it between her teeth.

Did they taste like vanilla? Cherry?

Something else entirely?

“Yeah,” I finally said when I’d stared a beat too long. “I’ve been called that a time or two.”

“You’re not all that bad, actually.”

Her words were quiet, but damn did they hit me upside the head. I had the weirdest urge to smile and bask in the compliment. But all that evaporated with her next statement.

“We should probably talk about what we’ve got coming up for you and Itzel.”

There was a pang in my chest as I watched her drop a shutter over her emotions. An entirely too practiced smile replaced the open expression from a moment ago.

“Yeah, we probably should,” I choked out, trying to hide my disappointment.

The sharp scent of alcohol cleared my head as I took another sip. She was right. We were here for a job, not to explore whatever the fuck it was that had me feeling like a damned college kid.

“So, it looks like the photos were run in a few different media outlets. I approved the ones of you two at dinner. Same ones Itze posted to her socials,” she said, flipping through the pages, avoiding eye contact.

I had no clue which ones she was talking about. Didn’t even remember taking any that night.