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His eyes flicked from her coffee cup to the clock above the stove, and a small frown set, wrinkling his forehead. If he gave her shit about coffee for dinner, he was going to find out about counter-conditioning.
Saint walked into the kitchen and stopped a healthy distance away. “You want to talk about something?”
His voice was low. Soothing and familiar. Her shoulders settled.
Fucking Pavlov. Or maybe it was Skinner—never mind.
“I have questions.”
“Ask them,” he said. “I’ll make dinner.”
She set down her mug and boosted herself onto the counter.
He used a match to turn the stove on, and it let out a soft woof as the gas caught. He put a large stainless-steel pot in the sink and filled it with cold water. His movements were smooth and economical. Perfectly controlled. She wondered what had happened in his life that had made him so, so careful.
“You good with steak and potatoes?”
Actually, I’m trying to have a serious conversation. Riley nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
He continued pulling things out of the fridge, then went onto the back patio to pull a sprig of rosemary out of the little herb garden he kept there. When he returned, he glanced at her.
“How long have you had the shop?”
“Four years.” He rolled the green sprig between his fingers.
“And what were you doing before that?”
His dark gaze cut to hers. “We were deployed.”
A bone-deep tiredness pulled at the edges of her thoughts. She didn’t want to do this. She was just getting used to it. Enjoying it.
Saint leaned back against the counter. He didn’t say anything.
Riley took a deep breath, bracing herself with the steam from her mug.
“Are the Eighty-Sixers your clients?” She met his eyes and held them. “Or are you a member?”
It would explain a lot, his calm certainty. If she had the Eighty-Sixers behind her, she’d feel pretty damned confident too.
He rested his hands on the counter behind him, and a flat quality crept into his eyes. Her heart sank into her stomach.
No.
“That’s not really what you want to know, is it?”
She closed her eyes, lids suddenly too heavy to keep open. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Why did she think she needed to know? Couldn’t she just keep… not knowing?
“Riley.”
She forced her eyes open.
He was as hard as stone. Her heart skittered, and she placed her mug down. Bracing her hands on the steel counter, she leaned forward. “Are you part of a gang?”
“That’s not it, either.” His voice was a dark rumble in the kitchen, and she could feel it in her chest like the bass from a speaker.
“You want to know if you’re safe with me, if I’m going to screw you over or hurt you.”
She felt a pull from her lowest rib, a thread connecting them. “Am I safe with you?”
