I nod, and he hands me the phone. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, Wren.”
Wyatt and Murphy head upstairs, and I start a kettle of hot water. If I have any more coffee, I’ll come out of my skin, and I doubt Wren wants anything caffeinated. The cabinets are surprisingly well stocked, and I find a box of chamomile apple tea that smells like heaven.
And a jar of gourmet honey.
The knock at the door isn't unexpected, but it still sends my heart rate shooting up. It doesn’t help that the kettle goes off seconds later. As soon as I turn off the heat, I hurry over to the intercom. “Wren?”
“It’s Cara. I’m Ripper’s wife. I’m supposed to say 'firefly.'"
Wyatt's code.
The brunette standing in the hallway wears a nervous smile and, in her hands? A casserole that smells like everything good in the world. “I sent a pan with Ripper too, but this one’s all ours.”
Lasagna. It's been forever since I've had lasagna. Cheese. Carbs. And oh, God. Is that sausage? We only had breakfast an hour ago, but I don’t care.
I wave her inside, but before I can shut the door, the elevator dings, and I freeze. It’s probably Wren. Right? Indecision keeps me frozen until I see her red hair. The relief sends a shudder all through me.
“Are you okay, Hope?” Cara asks, coming up behind me.
I stifle my yelp. “Shit. Sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Wren presses her hand to the small of her back. “Spitsnacks. This kid is going to be a soccer player. Or a kickboxer.”
Spitsnacks?
“Lasagna? Cara, you read my mind!” With a little squeal, Wren half walks, half waddles over to the counter, peels back the foil, and breathes deeply. “I could eat this for every meal.”
“Some days, you do,” Cara says with a chuckle. “I make six pans at a time!”
Seeing the two women laugh with one another makes me long for my former life. The one before Simon. When I had friends.
Wren turns back to me, and her green eyes widen. “You changed your hair.”
Touching the short, uneven strands, I stare down at my feet. At the boots that still bear a few bloodstains. “Simon liked it long.”
“It’s fabulous,” she says. “Cara? Want to take the pictures for Hope’s driver’s license and passport? I’ll get the plates.”
15
Wyatt
Ryker’s top floor unit is equal parts command center and cozy living space. Large computer screens fill up the entire south wall, but on the other side of the room, two love seats flank a small table with a view over the whole city. Boxes with bright red flowers line the windows, and a bassinet stands in the corner, though the mattress is still wrapped in plastic.
A small, white dog runs up to Murphy and yips happily. “That’s Pixel. She’s…hyper,” Ry says. “Probably should have walked her twice this morning.”
The two circle one another, doing the standard butt-sniffing-get-to-know-each-other routine all dogs love. And then Pixel darts off to the corner, grabs a stuffed, squeaky lamb toy and drops it at Murphy’s feet.
My best friend glances up at me, and I swear he’s asking me for permission to play.
Shit. He’s always been so focused. Five years together, and he’s only ever played with those damn rawhide bones. My damage hasn’t only affected me. It also doomed him to a life without anyone—or any other dogs—around. “Off duty,” I say quietly.
Seconds later, he’s rolling on the floor with the toy in his mouth while Pixel pounces on him.
West perches on a stool at a long counter, scrolling through information on his tablet. Inara’s on the phone, her voice too low for me to hear, but she gives me a quick wave and disappears down the hall.
“She’ll be back,” Ryker says. “Her guy’s on a business trip. Coffee’s in the kitchen. Pull up a stool and get comfortable. We’re gonna be here a while.”
As I’m pouring a full mug, someone knocks.
