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I dump the dirty paper towels into the trash, ignoring the sight of a blood-stained one that tells me she tended to her wounds while I lounged in bed watching hockey videos.
The dog glares at me.
I glare right back.
Until I realize that the water is still running, and Nova’s shoulders are slumped.
Even Steve realizes that something is up, whining softly and moving to the sink, leaning against her leg with a soft huff.
Tiny demon with a soft spot for its owner.
The contact startles her and I watch as she wipes the blue and black object on her pant leg then shoves it into her hoodie pocket. A second later, she’s pushing her sleeves up and going to town on the pan.
“I was trying to cook you dinner,” she says. “And Steve was being…” A sigh. “Steve.”
“I don’t need you to cook for me.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. “I’m sure you’re fully capable,” she says. “But I had food in my bag that needs to be used today and you’re letting me stay and”—a quiet sigh—“you rescued me from the side of the road.”
“So…what?” I ask dryly. “You’re repaying my hospitality with a meal?”
Her brows dragged together. “Why do you sound like that?”
I scowl. “Like what?”
“Like the thought of that makes you want to suck lemons.”
Eleven
Nova
“I don’t knowwhat that means,” he says.
I wave a hand in the general direction of his face. “It means that you look likethat.” His sour lemon scowl deepens as I reach for the sponge (still in the plastic wrapping), open it, and start scrubbing at the burned butter in the bottom of the pan.
I do this fast and furiously.
Mostly because it takes my mind off the damaged butterfly in the pocket of my hoodie.
Steve really is an asshole.
Teeth marks in the wings. One of the tiny diamonds missing. The metal scuffed up.
My heart convulses. My eyes sting.
Just another thing to chalk up to this shitty ass day.
But the good thing is that all my furious scrubbing means that the pan comes clean relatively easily and, before long, I’m dumping the extra water into the basin of the sink and searching the drawers for a dish towel to dry it.
“What are you doing?” he asks sharply.
“Looking for a towel.”
“Why?” Suspicious now.
“So I can stuff it into your mouth as I murder you,” I say, looking up and hefting the pan like I’m getting ready to swing it at his head. “I’ll have to get a stool to reach your thick skull with this first, though.”
His eyes narrow and he marches out of the room.
