“I’m plotting your murder. It’s keeping me entertained.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if you keep me trapped here much longer.” I shift on the couch, wincing as my ribs protest. “Any news on Isabel?”
“Brick tracked her to a house on the east side of town. He’s watching but hasn’t made contact yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because she went inside and hasn’t come out. He’s waiting to see what happens.”
A house. Back to whoever—or whatever—she’s been so desperate to reach.
“You should let me talk to her again. When she comes back.”
“If she comes back.”
“She will.” I don’t know why I’m so certain, but I am. “Whatever she went there for, she’s not the type to run forever. She’ll be back.”
Stone studies me for a moment, then crosses the room and sits on the coffee table facing me. Close. Too close. I can smell him again—that distracting combination of leather and soap that makes my brain go fuzzy.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“Josie.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’ve been sitting in that exact position for three hours because it hurts too much to move.”
Damn. He’s more observant than I’ve given him credit for.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face is a liar. Don’t trust it.”
His mouth twitches. “When’s the last time you took your pain meds?”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Josie.”
“They make me fuzzy. I can’t think straight on them.”
“That’s the point. You’re supposed to be resting, not thinking.”
“I don’t know how to not think. It’s a design flaw.”
He sighs, and for a moment he looks tired. Not the surface-level tired of a long day, but the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of a man carrying too much for too long.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says quietly. “Pushing like this. Your body needs time to heal.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
