“Oh, shoot. Sorry about that.” She says, giving me an apologetic smile. “Let me get that fixed for you right away.”
“Thank you.” Echo says.
She takes the plate and disappears back toward the kitchen. I stare at the empty space in front of me.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“Yes, I did,” he replies.
“I could’ve dealt with it,” I add.
“I know,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “But I’m here and you shouldn’t have to.”
A few minutes later my plate comes back perfect. No syrup and extra blueberries. I eat them slowly, letting the normalcy of the moment sink in. I’m eating pancakes with a killer.
A killer.
That’s the word I keep using for Echo. The one I default to when I don’t know what else to call him. It’s neat, contained, and it lets me keep distance between us, even while we’re sitting across from each other. Except it doesn’t really fit him anymore. And it hasn’t for a while.
Killers don’t show up when you need them. They don’t remember everything about you. Or prioritize your safety. Or treat you better than any other man ever has.
I take another sip of my coffee and watch him over the rim of my mug.
He’s focused on his food now, smashing through the pancakes and smiling to himself.
I realize, distantly, that I haven’t felt on edge the entire time we’ve been here. I didn’t track who came in or out. I didn’t clock the exits. I didn’t brace myself for anything. I just existed.
Echo may be a lot of things. Dangerous. Sexy. Complicated. Capable of things I don’t fully understand. But he’s also the guy who was there for me when shit got really rough. And maybe… maybe it’s time I stop callinghim a killer long enough to see what else he might be to me.
I take another bite of my pancakes, still warm, still perfect.
Across from me, Echo glances up. “Good?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
And this time, I actually mean it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Echo
She’s lookingat me differently.
I noticed it at the diner, somewhere between her second cup of coffee and her last bite of food. It’s subtle, a shift I’m sure most people wouldn’t notice. But I’m not most people, and I notice everything. Especially when it comes to her.
Bambi’s eyes are softer now, clearer. The hesitation I grew accustomed to seeing behind them is nearly gone, and the perpetual line of frustration between her brows has actually softened.
Even now, without even looking directly at her in my passenger seat, I can feel the difference in her gaze. Before last night, she couldn’t look away from me fast enough. Now, her gaze lingers. She started staring at the diner and hasn’t stopped since.
“Bambi.”
“Yes?” She says, sitting up straighter in her seat.
“Stop staring at me. It’s distracting.”
She blinks and her mouth falls open.
“I amnotstaring at you.”
