Page 65 of Reckless

So, we text instead. Ghost sends messages the same way he talks—short and efficient. Somehow capable of saying more in a few words than most people manage in paragraphs.

Toothpick: Eat lunch.

I look down at the yogurt still sitting untouched beside my keyboard and wonder if he has installed cameras in my office. I wouldn’t put it past the asshole.

Me: Are you tracking my eating habits now?

Three little dots appear almost immediately.

Toothpick: Yes.

I stare at the screen, and then laugh out loud in the middle of the office.

An hour later, my phone buzzes again.

Toothpick: Stretch.

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out.

Me: Bossy.

His reply comes before I’ve even put my phone back down.

Toothpick: You’re welcome.

I don’t stretch.

Five minutes later, my lower back starts complaining, and I groan, hating that the bastard was right, so begrudgingly, I stretch.

And I absolutely refuse to tell him he was right.

By mid-afternoon, I pick up my cell and send off another text.

Me: Still alive?

The reply takes longer this time. I picture him buried beneath monitors somewhere in the clubhouse, toothpick in his mouth while six different screens compete for his attention.

Toothpick: Debatable.

The corner of my mouth lifts.

Me: Need rescuing?

The little typing dots appear, then disappear, then they come back again.

Toothpick: Bring beef jerky.

I laugh quietly to myself.

Me: The terrible one?

Toothpick: Apparently.

Me: I’m saving you from yourself. I’ll drop by tomorrow with your stupid ass jerky.

Toothpick: See you then.

I smirk. “Man of few words,” I mumble to myself, then get on with the rest of the day, and by the time I finally crawl into bed, my phone is sitting beside me on the nightstand. One last message buzzes through just after ten thirty.