Page 54 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Rue

Hugo’s sleeping the sleep of the concussed and the innocent when I ease out from under him so I can explore.

First up is the kitchen, where I set the high-end kettle to boil.

While the water heats, I give in to my curiosity and wander through the rest of the main floor, a little too delighted to get a peek at how Hugo lives. He’s got a full office setup: a sturdy, unpretentious desk with two huge monitors, a comfortable-looking chair, shelves full of books and knickknacks, and framed diplomas on the wall. The walls themselves are covered in light-colored vertical wooden slats, which I recognize as expensive soundproofing panels. Dang, he’s serious about keeping his clients’ confidentiality.

The scream of the kettle interrupts my snooping, and I hurry back to the kitchen and pour the water into two cups, pick two fancy tea bags at random, and add honey to one. I use the time while they steep to look through Hugo’s trash and recycling. Nothing interesting, unless you count the lack of candy wrappers or empty fast food bags.

When the four minutes are up, I pluck out the tea bags and return to the couch to find Hugo upright and squinting into the faint light.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” I lift the mugs.

He rubs a hand over his heavy-lidded eyes. “You made tea?”

“I did. Is that okay?” I bite my lip, aware that I didn’t ask permission before ransacking his kitchen.

His lips tick upward. “What’s mine is yours.” Just as quickly, they fold into a frown. “Except the stir fry. Not for you.”

“Awfully selfish with your leftovers, Dr. Mohr,” I tease him as I sit down.

“Not selfish,” he mumbles. “Shellfish.”

It takes me a second to catch his meaning. “You know about my shrimp allergy?”

“Duh.”

I pause with the mugs still in my hands, trying to recall when we had that particular conversation. But we’ve had so many, and I don’t want the tea to get cold.

“Honey or no honey?” I lift the white mug, then the green one.

“Honey.”

The word comes out on such a wistful sigh that my brain hears it as an endearment at first, like it’s Hugo’s pet name for the girl next door.

But it’s his drink order, of course. I set the white mug on the table next to his end of the couch and carry the green mug to what’s become my side.

“Feeling any better?” I ask.

He peers at me over the rim of his mug, the steam curling around his face and framing his blue, blue eyes. “God, no,” he says with a little laugh.

I resist the urge to press the back of my fingers to his forehead to check for a fever, as if that’s what’s ailing him. Mom doing that when I was sick is one of the few nice memories I have of her, so it’s my first instinct when someone in my orbit—okay, Fi—needs caretaking.

Instead of touching the injured part of my neighbor, I curl my hands around my mug. It has a woodsy, smoky scent that teases my nose and stirs something warm under my ribs.

“Do you want to move to your bed for the night?”

Despite his injuries, those blue eyes turn molten. “Are you coming with me?”

My mouth falls open at the surprise invitation, and at my knee-jerk reaction not being an immediate “no.” The opposite, in fact.

He blinks, and concussed Hugo is back again. “How else would you be able to check on me every three hours?”

When did my neighbor’s voice make me so… tingly? Yes, the concussion has him speaking in a slow rasp, but there’s also a richness there that feels new. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I heard that nasal whine that used to make me crazy. I’d say the concussion knocked it out of him, but I don’t remember being irritated by it over the past few weeks. Maybe we’ve spent so much time together that I don’t even notice it anymore.

“I’ve shocked her into silence,” Hugo murmurs, taking a sip of his tea.

I laugh, but it’s strained. “Nice try, but you were right. That’s an old wives’ tale.”