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Kat nodded. “We’ll start with that cabin Ethan found. The zombies have to be guarding something.”
“It could just be a trap,” Ethan said.
“The only way to know if it’s a trap is to spring it.” Gwen’s voice was grim. “You two had better go get something to eat, then grab some sleep. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
But hopefully, in the end, a more successful one than today, Kat thought. “Have you eaten?”
“Yep. I’ll stay here and work on zombie deterrents.” She hesitated, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she added, “With all the noise of the storm and such, I’m not going to be getting much sleep anyway, am I?”
“I guess not,” Kat said blandly. She could feel Ethan’s gaze on her. Feel his sudden amusement. “Just make sure you set the warding stones again.”
“I have. Stop fussing and go get warm.”
Kat walked into the other cabin and discovered two pizzas waiting for them in the fridge, and the coffee machine on and ready. She zapped the meals in the microwave and poured two cups of coffee as Ethan squatted near the old record player.
“What do you prefer?” he said. “Elvis Presley or Frank Sinatra?”
“There isn’t anything more modern?”
“It’s them or jazz, and personally I’m not a big fan of jazz.”
Neither was she, though Gwen was, so she’d certainly heard enough of it over the years. “What Elvis albums we got?”
“Compilations. Ballads, mainly.”
“That’ll do.” Right now, Frank singing I did it my way was not what she needed. Especially since the man she was with had every intention of doing just that and to hell with what might be happening between them. The microwave beeped. She gathered the cutlery and put everything on the table. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Nothing like soggy pizza after midnight,” he said, smiling ruefully as he sat down opposite her.
“I didn’t think cops were overly fussy about when and what they ate.” She picked up her coffee, savoring its bittersweet taste.
“We’re not, which is why most of us develop ulcers later in life.”
“I would think job stress would have something to do with that.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t help.”
She cut her pizza into four, then picked up a piece and dug in. “Did you always want to be a cop?”
“Not especially.”
“So why did you become one?”
“Had to do something once I left home.”
She studied him for a minute, noting his closed expression, and said, “You don’t want to speak about the past?”
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His gaze met hers. Pain briefly lit the nut-brown depths. “Not especially.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters to me.” Because she needed to know, needed to understand, what was going on in his head, if not his heart.
“Then it shouldn’t.” His gaze hardened a little, became more wolf than man. “Don’t look for what isn’t there. Don’t expect me to give anything more than what I already have.”
