“Well?” Sahvage prompted as he put his leather jacket over the weapons he’d taken off his torso. Leaning back in his chair, he regarded her with a steady stare.
“I wasn’t talking about the Book,” she said as she carried the mug across to him.
“Thanks for this.” He smiled as he palmed what she’d made for him. “It’s perfect.”
“You haven’t tried it yet.”
“You made it for me. That’s all perfection requires.”
With a frown, she sat on the other side of the table. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what.”
“Try to be charming.” She rubbed her aching eyes and wondered whether there was any Motrin in her purse. “It doesn’t work.”
“I’ve never been charming.”
“Well, what do you know. We’re going to put self-awareness on your short list of positive attributes.”
“Someday, you’re going to like me.” There was a siiiipping sound. Then an ahhhhhh. “See? I told you this is perfect. Now talk to me about the Book. And yes, I’ll stop being a smartass.”
“Not possible.”
“Give me a chance.” Sahvage grew serious. “I want to know whatever you do about it.”
As the fighter went silent and seemed prepared to wait, Mae felt herself recede into her mind—but it was not back to her brother, to that ice-cube-filled tub, to the terrible mission she’d set herself on. Instead, she was once again out on the front porch of this previously peaceful cottage, shooting a heavy gun that, Sahvage was right, she couldn’t have held steady on her own.
“I didn’t have two hands,” she muttered. “With two hands, I could have done it.”
“What?” he said. “Oh, you’re thinking about my Glock. Yeah, it’s a big one.”
Mae narrowed her eyes. “You can stop with the double entendres. Anytime.”
“You’re going there, not me.” He shifted to the side and put the gun on the table between them. “The name’s right there on the weapon.”
“What is it about males wanting to show off their guns.”
“You can’t give me an opening like that—”
“What did I say about the entendres—”
“You mean these guns?” he said as he curled up two huge biceps. “Oh, and now she shoots me the death glare. Like anyone wouldn’t flex on that stage.”
As Mae tried to not smile, she watched him tilt and reholster the weapon—and when she noticed how muscular his shoulders were under that skintight t-shirt of his, she couldn’t stay sitting. Up on her feet again, she took the two teacups with her and Tallah’s loads of cold Earl Grey to the sink. Then she came back for the sugar pot and the creamer pitcher. As well as the crushed lemon carcass.
“You take vinegar with your tea?” He picked up the bottle and inspected the label. “Strange palate.”
“I’ll take that.”
When she went to grab the stuff from him, he didn’t let go. “Talk to me, Mae. I know you don’t like me and you sure as hell don’t appreciate me barging in here. But that guy with the Mohawk is right. I owe you my life—and I may be a piece of shit, but I do have a code of honor. Besides, you’ve just seen how handy I am in a fight, haven’t you.”
Now he released his hold. He didn’t stop staring up at her, though.
So as she turned away and put the vinegar back in the cupboard, she could feel his eyes on her.
“I promise to be good,” he murmured. Then he chuckled. “Fine, I promise to be better. And make it last this time.”
Leaning back against the countertop, Mae considered her options. Which didn’t seem to include kicking him out of the house—and not just because she couldn’t possibly have carried him to the door.
With a sense of defeat, she returned to the chair she’d been in. Putting her hands on the table, she linked her fingers and took a deep breath.
“Whatever it is,” he said, “I’m going to believe you.”
“What an odd thing to say.”
She glanced at him. He was looming there in that seat, his huge body overflowing the chair, the table . . . the cottage. Yet he was still, and silent. Ready to hear her out.
“But this is all so crazy.” Mae shook her head. “Really nuts.”
“Life is crazy. The foolish thing is thinking it isn’t.”
“If you had to take a guess, what was that shadow thing outside?”
“Tell me about the Book. I have a feeling that’s going to answer your question—and it’s what you believe as well, don’t you.”
“Stop reading my mind.”
“I’m not mind-reading.” More with the sipping. “It’s intuition.”
“Isn’t that for females?”
“Traditional sex roles are sexist.”
Mae didn’t want to laugh. So she covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound, hide the expression.
“You should do that more often,” he said softly.
Flushing, Mae smoothed the flyaways from her face. Funny. Even though her clothes were on right and her hair still in a ponytail, she felt completely disheveled. Like someone had put her in a wind tunnel.