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“Is that like a ‘We only wear pink on Wednesday’ kind of thing?”
“No, Regina. Do I look like the type of person who wears pink?”
Ezra looks me up and down. I tense my back to fight the shiver that threatens to show. Why does he have to have those sexy, smoldering hazel eyes? I can’t even say if he’s doing it on purpose, or if he’s just got a natural bedroom gaze, because until two hours ago, I hadn’t even cared to notice.
I don’t like it.
I kind of want to stab Riot for putting me in this position.
I'd rather hide in the trunk of my car with David’s bloating body than be standing here, pinned in place by a pair of eyes that hold the heat of the sun.
“You look like the type of person who could be persuaded to wear pink on a day other than Wednesday.”
I snort. “Not even in death.”
He shrugs the topic away. “Can I look in the freezer now?”
“You didn’t?”
“No,” he drawls. “And it’s killing me.”
“I think you’ll live.”
Ezra holds his hands together, mocking my simpering tone. “I’ve been a good boy. Please let me see.”
I roll my eyes and nod for him to follow me to the kitchen. “Go ahead.”
“Punny,” he says, opening the freezer. “There’s no head in here.”
I pull two glasses from the cabinet. “Who says that’s the only freezer I own?”
“You just wanted to know if I would listen,” he accuses, pointing his index finger at me.
“Good job,” I praise, touching my chest like I’m too satisfied to contain my emotions. “You can have a sticker now.”
“That was the test, wasn’t it?” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe that.”
“There was no test,” I remind him. “You made it all up. Scotch?”
He narrows his eyes. “If I say no?”
I give him a blank look. “There’s beer in the fridge. But you can’t smoke your pot in my apartment. You’ll have to wait until you’re anywhere else.”
Ezra opens my fridge and grabs a beer, staring at the beautifully designed label.
“I only know four people who drink this beer.”
“That’s oddly specific, and a shame…” I trail off, measuring my words when I catch his eye. “I like that it’s brewed locally. Small businesses and all. The raspberry is my personal favorite, but—”
“But Riley likes this one,” he finishes, popping the top on the bottle. “Citrus.”
“But I wanted to mix it up,” I correct. “The owner told me this one pairs well with steak.”
“Right,” he mutters, exaggerating the syllables.
I run my tongue along my teeth as I study him. “Why are you so set on me and Riley being a thing?”
“You called him to help you with a body,” he answers, holding his left hand up and folding his fingers down as he continues. “He asked me to leave him at the rave when we saw you. The way he looks at you. The way you look at him. You have his favorite beer in your fridge.”
