What else?
Lover.
I swallowed.
Husband.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” I squeaked.
Then I found myself utterly annoyed.
Kitty Frasier did not fucking squeak.
That was when I should have realized how screwed I was…
Because in front of this man, I kept on squeaking.
And speaking in third person!
Fuck my life.
“Hmm, didn’t look like nothing to me.” Then, he signed my death certificate.
He took a bite of his cupcake.
And he moaned.
Holy shit.
“How would you know?” I retorted, only managing to stop myself from squirming as he carried on eating. God, if I’d needed confirmation his oral skills were optimal, I had it. “You thought me waking up to you sitting in the corner of my room, having watched me fucking sleep with a gun in your hand and a cupcake in the other, was a nice wake-up call!”
“You were safe.”
I knew he meant from dumb, drunken tourists who’d decided to take advantage of a terrible situation to loot, but I also read between the lines.
I was safewith him.
And fuck if, deep in my bones, I didn’t know that already.
Refusing to relent, I folded my arms across my chest. “Saying thesame thing over and over again doesn’t make it true.” When he rolled his eyes, I scolded, “Did you get any sleep?”
“Of course not.”
I jerked upright again. “You’re supposed to rest after a myocardial?—”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
I gasped. “Don’t joke about that!”
“I’m not joking,” he dismissed before releasing a yawn. He checked his cell phone then informed me, “We’re leaving in two hours.”
“We are?”
“Yes.” He got to his feet and cracked his neck. “We’re heading to a private airfield so we don’t need to worry about your passport situation.”
“Huh? It’s too early for cryptic clues, Stan. What’s going on?”
