But it doesn’t matter. These men aren’t my friends. They’re in on secrets I’m not privy to. Where once I belonged, now I’m just a liability.
“See you around, Cee,” Jeremy says from by my side, but I don’t look his way. I don’t utter a word. And I can feel his disappointment before he turns and leaves.
I turn up the TV to drown out any conversation with Tobias. I’m relieved when he busies himself on his laptop. A few minutes pass before he pauses his keys when the anchor speaks up with a breaking bulletin.
“Last night, a known terrorist leader was killed in a successful operation led by the US Military. Shortly after the news broke, the target was portrayed by a major media outlet as an ‘Austere Religious Scholar’ leaving some Americans outraged who’ve started to voice their objections on social media—”
“Bullshit!”
“Bullshit!”
Our shared reaction has me turning to Tobias, who stands equally as perplexed on his side of the counter. He runs a hand down his face in frustration as I turn back and click off the TV. We stand in silence for a few seconds before he turns and tosses his coffee in the sink. “This is fucking terrible.”
“I agree, since when is it okay for reporters to humanize terror—”
“No, the coffee. You need a French press and a decent grind.”
Baffled, I stare at his back, his shirt a light blue, fitted perfectly to outline his broad frame.
“Well, you’ve spoiled your French tongue. I’m sure you had a plethora of tastes to choose from.”
He turns his head, before placing a palm on the counter and facing me with a cocked brow. “Are we still talking about coffee?”
“Of course, we are,” I snap, perplexed. “And at this point, I’m surprised you haven’t changed your address here for Prime Delivery.”
His light chuckle fills the kitchen. I wrap my hand around my waist as he scrutinizes me from where he stands.
“You truly do care about them.”
I inhale a breath for patience. “I told you a dozen times already. Our deal wasn’t even necessary. You’re the one that gave me the card to play. I would have kept my silence with or without our deal.”
He lifts one side of his mouth. “Can’t be too careful. You know. ‘Hell hath no fury—”
I slash my hand through the air. “‘A bird, unable to fly, is still a bird; but a human unable to love is an inexpensive stone.’” I retort dryly and walk to where he stands, setting my cup in the sink beside him before lifting my eyes to his. “Like I said, you’re incapable of my kind of currency.” It’s then I feel the spike, and it’s unavoidable. His eyes flame brighter with each passing second as we face-off.
“Endearment, adoration, devotion, warmth, attachment; also synonyms for love.” I turn to head upstairs and he jerks my elbow, pulling me flush against him. Electricity pings between us, stunning me for several seconds. It’s both lightning and thunder without warning. Between his striking physical attributes, the burn in his gaze and his mouth-watering smell, it’s getting impossible to play immune. The intensity of my attraction keeps shifting. The more I try to deny it, the more it rears its ugly head.
“No more bruises, please, I have a shift tonight.”
He lessens his grip. “You bruise too easily. You think I don’t understand you?”
“You don’t know me.”
He dips, his breath hitting my ear. “I know you.” He brushes the loose hair away from my shoulder, and I’m barely able to control the shiver that slight touch induces. “And you’re afraid of just how much I do know.” He lifts a finger and runs it faintly along my collarbone. “You think it’s love, but the truth is, you’re an addict,” he slowly trails the pad of the same finger up my throat before brushing it lightly across my lips. The shift in intensity is jarring as my limbs begin to tingle with awareness. “You’re high right now. And that’s all your currency is, a high.” I jerk away from him and he crowds in, his eyes trailing from my pumping chest back to my lips before he steps away, collects his laptop, and strides out of the kitchen.
“You’re an addict.”
The weight of that statement has blanketed me my whole shift.
“You sure?” Melinda asks as she gathers the last of our tubs together.
“Sorry, what?”
She looks over to me. Evident worry etched on her features as I recall our conversation. An attempt by her to set me up with her church’s new youth pastor. She’s no dummy—in fact, she’s become an expert at gauging my moods. More often than not, she’s bringing extra lunch on her shifts to make sure I’m eating. It’s comforting to know she cares, her concern for me maternal.