“That is an attack.”
“That is an observation.”
Her laugh is bright and easy and goes through me sideways. I lock my jaw against a reciprocal smile.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
I almost don’t answer.
“Sullivan.”
“Sullivan.” She tries it like she’s tasting it. “Sullivan what?”
“Mercer.”
“Sullivan Mercer.”She nods slowly, as if the name has weight.“Nice to meet you, Sullivan Mercer.”
“Yeah.”
I turn to leave.
She slides off the back of the truck, landinglightly, and calls after meinthe same hopeful, undeterred, sunshine pitch of voiceI’mlearning is an inherent part of her.
“I made cinnamon rolls last night! At a friend’s place in Denver.They’reina Tupperwareon top of the stand mixer, and you are absolutely getting one. Youdon’thave a choice.”
I keep walking.
Behind me, I hear her say,“He’sgoing to take one. Watch.”
I’mhalfway up the trail when something white comes flying past my left shoulder—a Tupperware, hand-thrown, with admirable form—and lands in a snowbank ten feet ahead of me.
“Catch!” she calls, two seconds late.
I stop. Look down at it. Look back at her.She’sgrinning on the porch with both handsather mouth like shecan’tbelieve she just did that.
I pick up the Tupperware. It’s warm in my glove. She must have stuck it in the truck heater.
I turn around slowly because a man has his pride.“You threw a Tupperware at me.”
“I overcommitted.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You overcommitted.”
“Eat the cinnamon roll, Sullivan Mercer.”
I look down at the Tupperware, thenbackat her. Her glasses are crooked.Again.Her hair is escaping from itsbraid.And her smile is not even a little bit afraid of me.
The system has a hairline crack in it.
Ituckthe Tupperware under my arm.“Don’t go up on the roof.”
“Roger that.”
And I climb back up the ridge with a warm cinnamon roll under my arm and a feeling in my chest that’sso foreignthat, at first,Idon’trecognize it as the precise opposite of safe.
Chapter 4
Tess
