My jaw tightens. “She texts everybody.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “She texted me last week asking if I thought you’d prefer a brunette or a redhead.”
I stare. “She what.”
Dillon’s grin is wicked. “I told her you’d prefer being left alone.”
“And she respected that?” I ask, dry.
He laughs. “No. She asked me what your favorite meal is and whether you’d be scared of a woman with curves.”
My throat goes tight.
Because the answer is no.
I’m not scared of a woman with curves.
I’m scared of what I want when I look at her.
I slam the tailgate shut harder than necessary. “I’m going back.”
Dillon pushes off the truck. “Don’t forget Sunday dinner.”
“I didn’t agree to Sunday dinner.”
Dillon’s eyes gleam. “June did.”
I get in my truck and start it before I say something that’ll get me murdered by an old woman with a sweet smile and a sniper’s aim for guilt.
The drive back to Haven 7 should clear my head.
It doesn’t.
All I can see is Mila standing in her doorway, cheeks flushed, trying to be brave in front of a man she doesn’t know. All I can hear is the softness in her voice when she said she was glad it was me who came.
That’s the kind of sentence that sticks under your ribs.
That’s the kind of sentence that turns into a problem.
Back at the station, I file the report, restock the med kit, hang my jacket to dry. Routine. Control. The safety of tasks that don’t ask anything from me emotionally.
Ryder wanders into the kitchen, grabbing a protein bar. “You’re weird tonight.”
“I’m always weird,” I say.
“No,” he replies, chewing. “You’re… distracted weird.”
I ignore him. “Go do inventory.”
He squints like he wants to push, then thinks better of it and disappears.
I stare at the coffee pot, which is ancient and bitter and reliable. I pour a cup I don’t want. Drink it anyway.
And then my phone buzzes.
June:
I saw the rescue call come in. You okay?
