Monty huffs.“She knows.”
“Of course she knows,” I mutter.Vesper has always been terrifyingly perceptive when it matters and willfully blind when it doesn’t.
I force my face into something lighter as we walk up.“Okay.Philippe needs food and rest.Vesper needs?—”
“Don’t,” she snaps automatically.
I lift my hands in surrender.“Fine.Vesper needs nothing.Vesper is a self-sustaining celestial body.”
“Better,” she says, rolling her eyes, and there it is—her humor like duct tape over a crack.
Monty steps past her like he’s already decided where the kitchen is.“She needs to eat.”
Vesper whips toward him.“Traitor.”
“Doctor’s orders,” he says, already opening cabinets like he pays rent here.
“The doctor did not order you to micromanage me,” she fires back, but there’s less bite in it now.More exhaustion.More ...relief, maybe, that someone else is making a decision for once.
Monty’s mouth curves, barely there.“She should’ve.”
Vesper freezes for half a second, then lets out a laugh that sounds like surrender dressed up as sarcasm.“Fine.Toast.Something bland.If I throw up again, I’m blaming both of you.”
“I’ll accept the blame,” I say instantly.“And then I’m dragging you to a doctor.”
“It’s probably nothing.”She shrugs like her body didn’t just stage a rebellion on the side of the road.“Or the flu.Or the universe hates me personally.”
“The universe has a long list,” I say.“You’re notthatspecial.”
She points at me.“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all day.”
Monty sets two slices of bread in the toaster with the focus of a man defusing a bomb.“Eat,” he says, like a command.
Vesper looks at him, unimpressed.“You’re bossy.”
“You’re stubborn,” he replies.
“I’m resilient,” she corrects.
“You’re exhausting,” he says, and it should sound cruel, but it doesn’t.It sounds like he’s known her forever.
Vesper’s lips twitch.“You love it.”
“I tolerate it,” he says.
She turns her head, eyes landing on his back as he reaches for plates, and her tired brain does what her tired brain always does—chooses violence via flirtation.
“It’s just a twenty-four-hour bug, and you two need to stop watching me like I’m helpless,” she protests.
“Twenty-four-hour bug, my ass,” Monty mumbles.
“Your ass is pretty fine, Alberto Montoya,” she says, far too casually for a woman who just puked on the highway.Then she glances at me, eyes bright with mischief she can barely hold up.“Don’t you think?”
Monty stills for a fraction of a second—caught, annoyed—and I file it away as proof he isn’t made of stone.
Vesper looks at me as if waiting for something.Probably annoying us both so we stop making plans about her.I don’t look away.I refuse.
I should look away.
