Page 48 of Reckless

“It’s redistribution.”

“It’s my jerky.”

“It was your jerky.”

I snort out a laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how ownership works.”

She shrugs, chewing with all the enthusiasm of someone fulfilling a contractual obligation. “I’m making a sacrifice.”

“For who?”

She gestures vaguely between us with the strip of jerky. “The greater good.”

I finally look away from my laptop. “You hate every bite.”

“I really do.”

“So why are you still eating it?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Because now you can’t.”

I stare at her for a beat. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

A grin tugs at the corner of her mouth as she holds her thumb and forefinger a tiny distance apart. “Little bit.”

“Liar.”

She laughs. “Okay…” Another bite disappears between her teeth. “A lot.”

My den smells of whatever floral shampoo she’s been using lately. I’ve noticed it before, more than once, and it has an irritating habit of lingering after she’s gone.

She settles back into the chair, folding one leg underneath herself while I turn back to the monitor. I don’t remember when she’d started making herself comfortable in here. I only know I stopped questioning it somewhere along the way.

“What?” she asks.

I realize I’ve been looking at her instead of the spreadsheet. “Nothing.”

“You’ve got your suspicious face on.”

I scowl. “I don’t have a suspicious face.”

She points a piece of beef jerky at me. “You do! It’s right underneath the toothpick.”

I pull it from the corner of my mouth and look at it. “I’ve had this for ten minutes.”

She snorts. “You’ve had that same toothpick for nearly an hour.”

I glance at the clock in the corner of my monitor—fifty-three minutes. “Close enough.”

“I knew it!”

“You knew what?”

“You only keep the same toothpick that long when you’re thinking.”

I slide it back between my teeth. “I wasn’t aware you were collecting data.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I wasn’t aware you were giving me anything worth collecting,” she says it matter-of-factly, like she’s simply pointing out cause and effect.