Page 24 of Striker’s Rebel

“No.”

He closes it.

Then tries again. “Your bedroom door?”

“The hallway.”

Ruth looks at Striker. “All night?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Her expression softens.

Thomas studies him. “You planning to sleep?”

“Eventually.”

“On what?”

“Floor works.”

Ruth looks offended. “Nobody sleeps on my floor.”

Twenty minutes later, I discover she apparently has no objection to attempted murder by furniture.

The chair she drags from the spare room is tiny, with curved wooden legs, faded pink roses, and a seat that might comfortably accommodate half of Striker.

He studies it.

“You sure you like this chair?”

“Of course I like it.”

“Just checking.”

Thomas folds his arms. “Go on, son. Let’s see what happens.”

“Stop encouraging him.”

Striker lowers himself carefully.

The chair gives a long, tortured creak.

Nobody moves.

Thomas whispers, “Jesus.”

A laugh bursts out of me.

Striker looks ridiculous. His broad shoulders dwarf the narrow chair, his knees have nowhere to go, and the faded roses beneath him look like they are experiencing their final moments on earth.

I laugh harder.

When I finally catch my breath, I realize he is watching me.

The amusement in his eyes shifts into something warmer, and my laughter catches.

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.