“I didn’t lie. He will not see my truck in your driveway, because I pulled it into the garage.”
“Touché.”
My mother’s letter is splayed out where his hand rests on the edge of the countertop, the smudges and slanted letters on display even though I definitely tucked that letter back into its envelope and pinned it to the fridge with a magnet. “You read my letter.”
“I did,” he admits, no hint of remorse in his tone. I don’t care, though; many people read that letter before it even left the correctional facility. It’s not like there’s anything blatantly incriminating in it.
“What’s that?” I point to the tiny vial next to the letter, the dark liquid rising almost to the top.
Colin’s gaze follows my finger, and he clears his throat, shifting on his feet.
“That is…” he clears his throat again, appearing to have a difficult time meeting my curious stare. “Your blood.”
“Myblood?”
He nods. “I think you were drugged at that party last night.”
Ahh, so Ididgo to the party. “And you took my blood for…”
“Proof.”
I press my hand to my chest, warmth blooming throughout me. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I gush. I have no recollection of even being at the party. And also, who the fuck drugged me? I’ll kill ‘em.
I lift the mug in my hand into the air and motion toward the plate of food in front of me. “Is this yours?”
“It’s yours,” he says flatly.
“How do you know how I like my coffee?”
“Baby Widow Steps Out for Coffee,”he says, using air quotes. I chuckle. That was a very detailed article on my coffee drinking habits. Enthralling information, apparently.
“Ventures,” I correct.
“Right.” He nods, settling into a chair on the other side of the counter.
“How did you know I was at a party?”
“Do you always talk this much first thing in the morning?” How cute, he’s deflecting.
I shrug, laughing and setting the coffee down to lift the toast to my mouth. Colin watches me eat, and I note the way his eyes look tired, his hair especially disheveled, but he looks no less handsome even though his white button-up is slightly wrinkled from being slept in.
“Who were you talking to?” I ask around a mouthful of perfectly cooked egg and ripe avocado.
“My boss,” he clips.
“He’s upset that you took me home?” I don’t even care that he’s in my house. Each thing he tells me is a tick mark on my list of reasons why IknowColin doesn’t actually hate me.
“He told me to stay away from you.”
“Because he thinks I’m dangerous?”
Colin laughs, shaking his head. “Because he thinks you’re not dangerous at all.”
“And you do.”
“Of course I do,” he says, his brows pinching together, though the conviction in his voice is not as prevalent as it usually is.
“Aren’t you upset that someone tried to drug you?” he asks, pivoting the conversation.
