She’s hiding shit, acting suspicious as hell in my private space and in a house my kids are staying in.
She holds up her hands, trying to look harmless.
For a second, it looks like she wants to put them on my shoulders, trying to be reassuring. One good look at my face makes her think better of it, though, and she lowers her arms.
“Look,” she says, and I start getting flashbacks of my call with Mallory from OptiSynth. “You’re already working for free playing handyman. Chasing around rodents should be the least of your worries when you’re on vacation and—”
“No. If I can’t handle my worries, you’ll know. I’m not getting spooked by a few fucking mice.”
I roll up my sleeve for proof and she shuts the hell up.
Her eyes dart to the tattoo across my bicep.
Yes, it’s a power play.
A message of fearlessness that goes beyond vermin.
I’m not afraid of them, and I’m in no mood for your bullshit.
From the way she sucks in a breath before we lock eyes again, she knows it.
Her face glazes over as she looks back down at my arm.
The tattoo is a skull with a US Airborne unit insignia. The eye sockets are wide and dark and staring, the shadows intricately inked.
A fucking cool piece of art, heavy with meaning, and something I’m proud to wear on my skin.
A reminder that no matter what life throws at me, I’m equipped to handle it.
And considering everything that came after I returned to civilian life, I’m damn lucky I know how to handle myself.
“Listen, Margot,” I say, my voice low.
She flinches. Her lips part as she waits for me to finish, and—
Shit.
I tear my gaze away from her mouth, riveting it back to her eyes.
It doesn’t help that I’m both pissed at her and very aware of her proximity.
The featherlight brush of her breath, the faint scent of blueberries. Her headier perfume, something floral and sweet.
“Listen, I’ve seen enough shit in my life to handle a little mouse. What I can’t tolerate are people who lie to me.”
She rocks back like I just slapped her.
The distance is good.
I need her to understand whatever game she’s playing won’t fly, and I’ve had enough dishonesty for this lifetime.
It was bad enough with Daria and the way everything imploded after her affair started.
Margot swallows a few times, like she’s suppressing whatever emotion I just drew out of her, and she takes another step back.
“I’m really sorry again,” she says one more time, her soft voice a little flat. “I won’t come creeping a second time.”
“Or the kids’ rooms,” I warn.
