I reached up and felt it.
Tender. Jaw aching. Eye throbbing.
He stared at me like he’d just personally committed a felony.
“I tried to save you.”
“You assaulted me,” I teased.
“I did not?—”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was defending the house!”
“With your elbow?”
“And my phone, apparently.”
Despite the swelling already blooming along my cheekbone, I felt a grin spread across my face.
He looked confused by that.
“You’re smiling.”
“Because,” I said, slightly breathless, still straddling him on the floor, “your Uncle Max was a World War II spy.”
He stared at me.
“What?”
“A spy,” I repeated. “Like coded messages, classified assignments, recruited for intelligence work.”
He blinked again.
“You nearly killed yourself to tell me that?”
“I did not nearly kill myself,” I said indignantly.
“You screamed like you were in danger.”
“Not danger, excitement. We’re talking spies.”
He stared at me, but I got the feeling he wasn’t impressed.
I stared back.
Then he groaned and dropped his head against the floor. “You’re going to have a black eye and a bruised jaw.”
“Probably.”
“Your dad is going to arrest me.”
“My brothers are going to line up to take a swing at you.” I laughed, but briefly, thinking I just might be right.
He closed his eyes. “I’m doomed.”
I leaned down slightly. “Totally worth it.”
