But the house is safe, which is the most important part. Especially now that we’ve added even more security to the system Yara already installed. So if anyone even breathes outside a window or tries to pick a lock, we’ll know immediately. And with four former Special Forces operators staying here, any intruder will receive averyunpleasant welcome.
“What time do you think I should have dinner ready?” Bea asks. Now that the dough is all cut, she’s started dropping spoonfuls of some sort of herb and cheese mixture in the center of each of them. “I know Tyler’s working on his computer in the office. But what about Ace and Yara?”
“Ace is surveilling the neighborhood. Getting the lay of the land, so to speak.” We checked the area immediately around us first thing this morning, but Ace went back out under the guise of a casual jogger to get a better look. “And Yara said she’d be back around five. So we’ve?—”
Wait. When shouldBeahave dinner ready?
“Bea.” I catch her hand and take the spoon from her. “You don’t need to cook for us. I didn’t think—” But a quick glance around the kitchen makes it obvious. A pot filled with water sits on a burner, ready to be heated. Spinach and cloves of garlic are set on a cutting board nearby, with a cutting knife unsheathed beside them.
When I first walked into the kitchen, all I noticed was the enormous sheet of dough she was working with. And I thought she might be working through her nervous energy by baking. Butto prepare dinner for all of us? When she’s barely a week out from her concussion?
“It makes me feel better,” Bea replies. She pulls her hand away from mine and begins spooning the cheese mixture onto the dough again. “Cooking relaxes me. And it’s the least I can do after everything you guys are doing for me.”
The idea that she thinks she owes us anything—owesmeanything—doesn’t sit right with me.
“You don’t owe us for this. You don’t owe me. I made the choice to go get you, Bea. If anything, I owe you for not panicking and turning me in.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Did you think I would? Turn you in?”
“I didn’t think so. But I knew it was a possibility, given what I did. Just because I thought it was the right thing to do…”
Bea stares at me. Her brows pull into a V, with tiny lines forming between them. “I was confused at first. And yes, I was kind of… pissed at you. But I would never have turned you in. Never. For a second, I considered leaving and taking my chances on my own?—”
“Please don’t do that.” I can’t even let myself think about how badly that could turn out. Bea all alone, hiding out in shady motels, trying to stay one step ahead of the police and the killer who framed her… “Please. If you’re unhappy here, if you want to do something different, I’ll figure it out. But don’t just leave.”
“I won’t, Indy. I said I thought about it. But I’m not stupid. I know how dangerous that could be.” With the last spoonful of cheese mixture deposited, Bea starts folding the dough over into tiny triangles and pinching the edges to seal them.
She falls silent for a few seconds, concentrating on the little dough triangles. Then she looks back up at me. “I’m not leaving. And…” Her cheeks turn pink. “I don’t want to leave you. Is that silly of me to say?”
“No. It’s not silly.” Following her lead, I attempt to make a dough and cheese pocket on my own. But it’s not easy, like she makes it appear. My fingers are too clumsy. I keep pinching the dough too hard.
Bea places her hands over mine. “Like this.” As she guides me through it, her hair brushes my chin, smelling softly of vanilla.
I can’t tear my eyes from the sight of our hands linked together.
My throat goes thick.
When I lost my hand, I never thought a woman would want me to touch her again.
And later, once the shock of it had faded, I was too insecure to even try.
I couldn’t stand the thought of it—touching a woman with my prosthetic and seeing the revulsion in her eyes. Or even worse, pity.
But with Bea, it’s not like that at all.
Once we finish the little dough pockets—or whatever official name the recipe calls them—Bea lifts the parchment paper up and slides it carefully onto a baking tray. She carries it over to the oven and puts the tray inside it, then closes the door and sets the timer.
When she turns around, I ask, “How long do they need to cook for?”
“The Tiropitakia?”
“Tiro-what?”
She grins. “Tiropitakia. They’re Greek cheese pies. My grandmother used to make them, and I learned the recipe from her.”
“Oh.” I join Bea at the sink as she rinses her hands. Once she’s done, I rinse mine off and pat them dry with the towel she hands me. “When my mother cooked, it was more all-American type stuff. Meatloaf, roasts, burgers and hot dogs…”
“Are you close to her? Your mom?”
