“He was following us,” Nash agreed, moving to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, surveying its newly stocked contents. “The question is, why? Is he working for the Ferrantes, or does he have his own agenda?”
“I don’t know,” Amy admitted. “But his timing was too convenient to be coincidence.”
Nash’s stomach rumbled loudly, interrupting their speculation. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was already past two. “I’m starving. All that bat-dodging really works up an appetite.”
Amy laughed, the sound warming something in Nash’s chest. “I’m pretty hungry too.”
“I could make us some lunch,” he offered, pulling out eggs and cheese. “How do omelets sound?”
Amy pushed herself up from the couch. “Actually, it’s my turn. You cooked last night.”
“You sure?” he asked, eyeing her ankle.
She waved him off. “It’s better. Really.” She limped to the kitchen, shooing him away from the refrigerator. “Besides, I want to thank you for everything—the ankle wrapping, the hiking stick, the bat rescue.”
Nash raised his hands in surrender, moving to one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. “By all means, then. Impress me with your culinary skills, Amy Roberts.”
He saw her pause at the use of her real name, a small smile playing at her lips. He’d been careful to keep calling her Sadie when anyone else might overhear, but here in the privacy of his home, he enjoyed using the name she’d kept hidden for so long.
Amy moved around his kitchen with surprising familiarity, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets. Nashfound himself content to just watch her—the way she hummed softly to herself as she worked, the delicate movements of her hands, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows.
“Are you one of those health-food people?” he asked as she assembled an impressive array of vegetables, organic quinoa, and grass-fed steaks on the counter.
She glanced up with a grin. “What gave it away? The twelve lemons or the almond milk?”
“Both.” Nash chuckled. “And the fact that you nearly had a heart attack when I suggested we stop for burgers on the way home.”
“It’s not about being healthy,” she corrected, deftly chopping bell peppers. “It’s about knowing what’s in your food.” She pointed the knife at him for emphasis. “My mom got really into clean eating after …” She hesitated. “After we moved to Salt Lake. I guess some of it stuck with me.”
Nash nodded, understanding what she wasn’t saying. After losing her father, after witness protection, her mother had sought control in the only ways she could. “Well, whatever you’re making smells amazing already,” he said, watching as she sautéed garlic and onions in olive oil.
“It’s nothing fancy. Just a quinoa bowl with roasted vegetables and grilled steak.” She glanced up with a teasing smile. “Trying to ease you ranch boys into healthy eating.”
“Hey now,” Nash protested. “I eat healthy.”
“Uh-huh. Is that why your refrigerator was empty except for condiments and string cheese before I arrived?”
“I was busy,” he defended weakly. “And there was also orange juice. That counts as a fruit, right?”
Amy laughed, the sound making his chest tighten in the best possible way. There was something about her laughter—unguarded and genuine—that made Nash feel like he’d accomplished something significant every time he caused it.
“So,” he said casually, watching as she expertly seasoned the steaks, “I’ve been thinking about what you told Martinez.”
“Which part?” she asked, not looking up from her work.
“The dating part.”
Her hands stilled momentarily before resuming their task. “Oh?”
Nash leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “I think we should keep it up.”
Now she did look up, her green eyes meeting his with a mix of surprise and something else he couldn’t quite name. “Keep up the fake dating?”
“I mean, fake or real. Just for safety,” Nash clarified, though even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the whole truth. “Think about it—if Martinez is connected to the Ferrantes, or if he’s after the gold himself, it gives us a reasonable explanation for why we’re spending time together. It’s better than trying to explain the whole complicated truth.”
Amy considered this, her head tilted slightly to the side in a way that Nash found unreasonably adorable. “I guess that makes sense.” She picked up the plate of seasoned steaks. “These need to go on the grill.”
Nash hopped up from the barstool. “I’ll help.”
