Page 45 of Chameleon Killer

“I apply heat to food.” He didn’t glance at me.

With a hum, I shook my head. “That wasn’t my question.” Deflection told me there was another story there.

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

I appreciated the dry challenge whether he meant to offer it or not. I suspected it was the former. After all, if he were to make it easy to find out the truth from him or other sources, then it wouldn’t be any fun.

I walked closer and peered at the pan of... “What is it?”

The side eye he shot me almost made me laugh. “Eggs.” The little snap on that single syllable stressed his irritation.

“Huh. They look—like they are going undercover. Or maybe Halloween.” It was the nicest description I could come up with at the last moment.

He released a grunt without comment one way or the other regarding the eggs. Instead, he pointed his spatula at the tumbler sitting in front of the seats at his breakfast bar.

“Your coffee.” When deflection failed, just change the subject. I almost saluted him with the cup.

The first sip of the latte was pure delight. It was hot and delivered a real kick at the end. Quad shot. I could have kissed Flint. I savored that taste and almost smiled before I took another drink.

I closed my eyes for a second, letting the warmth and caffeine do their work. It was, without exaggeration, the best thing that had happened to me all morning.

When I opened them again, Flint was watching me over the rim of his mug. His expression had softened into that almost-smile he wore when he thought something was amusing but didn't want to embarrass the other person by saying so.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

Too fast.

I gave him a look. “You're doing the face.”

“I don't have a face.” He turned back to the stove as if the eggs demanded his full attention.

“You absolutely have a face.”

“Tragic design flaw.”

Despite everything, I laughed.

It was easy with Flint. We volleyed sarcasm back and forth without keeping score, and somewhere between the coffee and the conversation, the knot that had lived between my shoulders for days loosened a fraction.

That definitely didn’t come from getting enough sleep—which I hadn’t. My eyes still felt like gritty pits. But it was enough to remember what normal almost felt like.

I leaned against the counter and worked on getting the life-saving fuel to my brain. The quiet that settled between us wasn’t uncomfortable. That should have bothered me more than it did.

I had spent the night in his bed.

He had slept ten yards away on a sofa too short for him.

Now he was making eggs while I stood barefoot in his kitchen wearing his clothes. There were entire relationships less intimate than this.

That thought arrived uninvited, so I drowned it in coffee.

“You should have taken the bed,” I said.

He didn’t glance back at me. “You already filed that complaint.”

Since he wasn’t looking at me, I indulged myself and stuck my tongue out at him. “Then I’m filing an appeal.”