Grayeyes scan my face with that intense, counting gazeI’vegrown addicted to. "Icorrected an accounting error.Thenumbers balance now."
"Youdeleted the gun-running,"Iwhisper furiously, glancing around to make sure no one onMainStreetis listening. "Youdeleted the entire illegal operation to save me from a fraud charge."
"Priorities,Mia."Hesteers me down the sidewalk, his grip on me unyielding. "Theclub can rebuild its distribution network.Ican’t rebuild you if you’re in a federal prison."
Hismatter-of-fact tone stops the air in my lungs.Hetraded his brotherhood’s security for my freedom.It’sthe most romantic, terrifying, illegal thing anyone has ever done for me.
"Whereare we going?"Iask as he guides me past the hardware store.
"Breakfast," he says. "Youdidn't eat last night.You’rerunning on adrenaline and stale crackers.Yourblood sugar is low."
"You’recounting my calories now?"
"Icount everything."
Weturn the corner toward the alley entrance of theCozyCup.Evenfrom here, the smell hits me—roasted coffee beans and the sweet, yeasty scent of pastries.Mystomach betrays me with a loud growl.
Elias’slips twitch.It’salmost a smile. "See?"
"Fine.Butpeople are going to stare.I’mthe 'FraudGirl' everyone’s been gossiping about for three days."
"Letthem stare,"Eliassays, his voice darkening.Hepulls open the door, the little bell jingling merrily above us. "Iwant them to see."
Westep inside, and the conversation in theCozyCupdies instantly.It’slike someone hit the mute button on a remote.Forkspause halfway to mouths.Coffeecups hover in mid-air.Everypair of eyes in the place swivels to us.
It’sthe lunch rush, so the place is packed.IspotfacesIvaguely recognize from crossing town—the man from the hardware store is at the counter.Andbehind the counter, holding a steaming pitcher of milk, isa waitress wearing a 'Christie' nametag.
Hereyes go wide.Shelooks from me, toElias, to his hand firmly planted on the curve of my waist.Aslow, knowing grin spreads across her face.
"Tablefor two?" she calls out, breaking the silence.
Thetension in the room snaps, and the hum of conversation returns, though it’s hushed and definitely about us.
"Booth,"Eliasgrunts.Hedoesn't wait to be seated.Hemarches me toward a booth by the window, the one that offers a clear view of the door but keeps his back to the wall.Tacticaldining.
Imove to slide into the booth, butEliasreaches out, directing me to sit on the side with the wall to my back.Heslides in right next to me, crowding me against thevinyl wall.Histhigh presses against mine, a solid wall of heat and denim.Hisarm stretches along the back of the booth, effectively boxing me in.
"Personalspace isn't a concept in theMChandbook, is it?"Imutter, thoughI’mleaning into him.I’mcold, tired, and he feels like a furnace.
"Notwhen it comes to you," he says.Hepicks up the laminated menu, thoughIdoubt he needs it. "You’rehaving the skillet.Extraprotein."
"Iwant pancakes.Blueberryones."
"Youcan have a side of pancakes.Butyou need eggs."
"Yes,Mom."
Christieappears at the table, a pot of coffee already in hand.Sheflips two mugs over and pours the dark liquid.Thesteam rising off it smells rich and nutty.
"Coffeefor two?"Christieasks, a knowing smirk on her face. "Gladto see you’re... out and about."
"Thanks,"Isay, grabbing my mug with both hands. "It’sbeen a week."
"Ibet."Shewinks. "Town’sbeen buzzing.FirsttheFedsand the way you two vanished into the compound.Ihad to tellOldJackto stop making bets on whether you were a spy or a hostage."
"Neither,"Eliassays, his tone clipped. "She’sfamily."
Christiepauses.Hersmile softens. "Well.Thatsettles that, then.WhatcanIget you?"
