Fuck. She is so cute.
“That so?” I asked. Purely to keep her talking.
“I had a favorite remote,” she said, entirely serious. Which I wanted to point out was concerning. “One with all the buttons worn off. Could only turn on the bedroom TV. But it was mine. And if someone borrowed it without asking, I’d stage a coup.”
“You’re very passionate about this remote.”
“It was elite. The batteries were taped in and everything.”
I let out a low laugh. “Let me guess. You’ve named it.”
She grinned. “Reginald.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Respect the king.”
I looked at her, in my shirt, talking about a busted old remote like it was priceless. And I couldn’t stop staring. Worse. I couldn’t stop listening. I wanted to know about her stuff. I needed her to keep talking to me.
“Do you even own any comfort items?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Comfort items?”
She looked back at me with mock patience. “Yes. Something that makes you feel… normal. Human. Safe.”
“I’ve got a few guns I trust.”
She groaned, rolling her eyed. “Of course it’s agun.”
“It’s better than your remote.”
“That is slander against Reginald,” she said, lifting her chin. “He never missed a beat.”
It was stupid. But I was starting to get jealous of her passion for this remote.
“Bet he never cleared a room either.”
She pointed at me. “That’s not the point. Comfort is about feelings.”
“I feel better when I’m armed.”
“Vince.”
I smirked.
She sighed. “Okay, fine. Cars?”
“I have garages.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Garages?”
I nodded.
“With ans?”
“Correct.”
“You havemultiplegarages,” she said slowly, like I was the villain in a crime novel. “You rotate penthouses, don’t know how many homes you own, and sleep next to weapons but don’t have a favorite shirt or a blanket or a snack stash?—”
