Page 208 of Chameleon Killer

I turned back to the coffee machine before she caught me staring.

“Don't,” she ordered.

“Hmm.”

“You're making decaf.”

“I'm making coffee.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Who’s being evasive, now?”

I filled two mugs. “Drink it before filing a complaint.”

She crossed the kitchen and accepted the mug. Took a sip. Her eyes closed in a suggestion of bliss. When they opened again, her lips curved into a gentle smile.

“You lied.”

“It’s called compromising,” I informed her as I took a sip of my own coffee.

“This is full strength.” She leaned against the counter next to me.

“Nope,” I said, just drinking in the sigh of her. “It’ half-caff.”

Her stare turned suspicious. Then she took another sip of her coffee before she eyed me again.

“Three-quarters.” I took a drink of my own.

“Flint.”

“Fine. Full strength.”

A faint smile emerged. “Thought so.” She took another drink.

I considered moving away. I should. But she looked so pleased with herself, that I didn’t want to. Not after the past twenty-four hours.

Hell, not after the past month. I wanted to be right where I was. So, I compromised—again—I backed up to give us the appearance of distance. It was probably as effective as the coffee, but…

Her smile disappeared. “We're still doing this?”

“Coffee?”

She gazed at me patiently. “The other thing.”

I knew exactly what she meant. “I don't know what thing you're referring to.”

“That bullshit may work on management.”

With a shrug, I took another sip of my coffee.

She lowered the mug. “Three days.”

I looked at her.

“You've been sleeping on a sofa that is approximately eight inches too short for you for three days.”

“Ten.” If we wanted to be specific.

“That's worse.”