He pulls me into a gentle bear hug, careful not to squeeze or crush my battered body. I let myself sink into him, though, and listen to the sound of his calm heart beating through his chest for a moment. God, he feels good. Like being at home already.
Nick whisks me and my luggage inside insisting he’ll drive me to LAX himself. He offers to make me a tea and—seeing it as an opportunity to nip downstairs—I accept, letting him head off to the kitchen while I head to the bathroom.
Downstairs, I head straight for Nick’s bedroom, listening for breaks in his activity upstairs. I carefully unwrap the Sig, wipe it down once more, and place it gently back into its drawer.
I hear him heading toward the staircase, his pace slow, teas in hand, and I dash as quietly as I can to the bathroom to make a show of finishing up. I pull the door open and he’s leaning against the wall by the doorframe, two mugs in hand. He holds my gaze as I stand in front of the blocked doorway.
“What did you want to tell me?” he asks, finally, sipping his tea.
I frown, unsure what he means.
He gives me a soft smile. “In your text you said you wanted to talk to me about something.”
I had wanted to tell him how sorry I was for leaving so suddenly after we’d been getting on so well, but now, standing in front of him, even the idea of doing that ignites a hot flush that moves with lightning speed up my neck to my pummeled face.
His eyes are on me, watching carefully, patient and quietly amused. “Were you planning on telling me you took my handgun yesterday by any chance?” he asks gently. “Because I’m guessing it’s back in the drawer now, right?”
I straighten at his words but can only respond with dumb silence, caught red-handed and lost for words. He looks at me expectantly though not angrily.
“Yeah, it’s back in the drawer,” I answer, wincing at the sheer awkwardness of the exchange, my eyes searching him for a reaction. “…Sorry?” I add. It’s a question.
He holds my gaze. “Okay,” he says after a pause. “Is that it?”
“I’m sorry, Nick,” I repeat.
He nods. “Right, I mean, I wish you’d just asked.” He sips his tea, conscious of the oddness of the conversation but clearly keen to keep things on an even keel. “I’m dying to know why you needed it.”
I remain silent, bathed in a weird kind of shame I haven’t felt since childhood. He’s not reacting like I thought he would. He’s acting like I borrowed his toothbrush.
“You didn’t use it, I’m guessing?”
“No,” I confirm with a firm shake of the head. “Definitely not.”
“You know there was a bullet in the chamber, right?” There’s the lightest shade of worry in his tone.
“Yes, well actually, no I didn’t. Not at first, but then yes.”
He’s quiet for a second, seeming to put the pieces together. “Is this something to do with Emily?” he asks.
“It is.”
He waits for more but I can’t give it to him, not unless I tell him everything. He lets a fresh silence stretch out before speaking again. And for the first time in the conversation he sounds genuinely concerned.
“Did you make up the whole Emily story, Mia? Is there something else going on with you? Something I should know about?” He looks worried, hurt even, and I find my resolve wobbling.
“No, I didn’t. She was real. I went to meet a friend of hers last night. I was worried the friend might have been responsible for Emily’s disappearance in some way.” I cobble truth muddied with half-truth. It’s all I can give him. “Turns out she wasn’t responsible for Emily, not really. But I didn’t know beforehand and I was scared. I know it was incredibly reckless going, taking your gun. Dangerous and illegal and I lied to you and stole from you but I just wanted some sense of security, I suppose.”