I laugh, awkward and too loud.
“Right. Sorry.”
Jensen waves it off.
“He came over here all broody, trying to act grumpy about the keys, but Stormy …” He gestures dramatically at the blister pack still in my hand. “Painkillers.He brought you painkillers.”
Missy gasps like it’s a plot twist from one of my thriller novels.
My brows furrow.
“They’re just painkillers.”
Jensen shakes his head, eyes wide with mock seriousness.
“Yeah, but it’swhat the painkillers mean.”
“They don’t mean anything,” I say, but even I don’t sound convinced.
Jensen snorts. “Besides … did you see his face when he thought you had another guy in here? Devastated.”
He laughs, full and unfiltered, and Missy practically squeals.
“I knew it,” she says, pointing at me like she’s won a bet. “He couldn’t stop looking at you in the booth last night.”
I stare at them both, heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with the hangover. And everything to do with Ford.
I scoff, shaking my head like it’s nothing.
“You’re both reading way too much into this. He dropped off some keys and painkillers, not a love letter.”
Missy snorts.
“Yeah, yeah. Sure. And I only wear mascara to impress my cat.”
Jensen frowns, blinking at her.
“You don’t have a cat.”
She grins, smug.
“Exactly.”
That catches me off guard, and despite myself, I laugh. Jensen chuckles too, shaking his head like he’s surrounded by lunatics.
Then he leans back against the couch, arms folded behind his head.
“Stormy, come on. The man showed up before breakfast with painkillers and a broody attitude. That’s Ford code for I like you, but I’m emotionally constipated.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks are warm.
“He was just being nice,” I mumble, heading toward the kitchen like the kettle is far more urgent than this conversation.
“Nice?” Jensen calls after me. “He looked like someone kicked his puppy when he thought you had another guy in here.”
I busy myself with mugs, teabags, and breakfast, pretending not to hear them. But my hands move slower than usual, and the kettle takes longer to boil. And somewhere beneath the hangover and the noise, something soft and stupid and hopeful starts to bloom.
Jensen took off a little while ago … said something about tracking down Ford. Now it’s just me and Missy, sprawled across the sofas.
