Page 60 of End Game

“And when I tell you to show me again…”

Her breath catches.

Fuck.

“...you will.”

Chapter ten

Party Composition

Griffin

Forty-eight hours of busy paramedic work gives you a lot of time to think—just not in full thoughts.

There are showers, drives back to the station after calls, meals eaten at strange hours, and those short stretches in the middle of the night when everyone else is sleeping, and I’m staring at the ceiling of the bunk room waiting for the tones to drop again.

Every one of those quiet moments has eventually circled back to Cami and Ronan.

I knew what was happening on Friday before I left for work.

And I’m okay with that.

I’ve asked myself the question enough times in the last two days that I’m confident in the answer.

What I haven’t figured out is whether knowing something is going to happen and coming home after it has happened will feel the same.

By the time I pull into the driveway Sunday morning, though, I’m exhausted enough that if my brain has decided to manufacture a jealousy-fueled existential crisis, it’s going to have to wait until I’ve slept more than ninety consecutive minutes and had some coffee. Apparently if I failed a Wisdom save somewhere around hour thirty-six, I’m too tired to deal with the consequences yet.

The house is quiet when I let myself in. I drop my bag by the bottom of the stairs, toe off my shoes, and follow the smell of coffee to the kitchen.

Ronan is there alone, which doesn’t surprise me. What does feel a little unfair is that he somehow looks completely put together while I feel like I’ve been beaten with a fire hose for two straight days.

He looks up from his coffee. “Good morning.”

“Debatable.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as I head for the refrigerator.

“Long shift?”

“Too long,” I admit.

“Tired?”

I just glare at him.

“I guess I knew the answer to that,” he says, still with a small smile.

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Polite conversation.”

“You might need more practice.”

That gets an actual smile from him, and I turn back to pour myself a glass of orange juice.

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything, but there’s something different about the silence. Or maybe there isn’t, and I’ve just spent entirely too much of the last two days thinking about the fact that not only did this man fuck my wife—probably several times—over the last few days, but he also did so creatively.