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My frown deepens. “I’m aware of that.”
But she doesn’t seem to hear me. “You know,” she says, going to the fridge, pulling open the door. She pulls out a lemon, a ginger beer, one of those clear herb containers—all of which I didn’t buy, all of which must have been in her belongings. Those go on the counter and she pauses. “I think I saw…” But I don’t hear the rest as she disappears into the pantry, comes back with a jar of honey. “Cool if I use this?” she asks dismissively, as though she expects me to say no but that it wouldn’t be big deal if I did.
As if she expects me to be an asshole, but that, also, wouldn’t be a big deal.
“Yeah,” I say gruffly, ignoring the pinch in my chest.
Easy to do because it’s a familiar feeling.
Easy to do because I’m curious to what in the fuck-all she’s doing.
She takes her glass to the counter next to the sink, snags mines and opens a cabinet, pulling out a cutting board, snagging a knife out of the rack. And that’s as much as I see as she gets to work. I can’t discern much as her back is to me—just her arms moving and then I can smell the lemon along with something earthly, can hear the clink of a spoon, the pop of the can of ginger beer opening, a soft grunt, and then the metal-against-glass sound of the jar of honey opening.
A handful of ice snagged from the freezer,plinkingas she drops some into each of the cups.
More movement.
More spoon clinking.
Then she’s turning around, lifting a glass in my direction. “There,” she says. “Try this.”
I frown.
She’s smiling, but her eyes aren’t warm.
“Here,” she says, jiggling the glass a bit, the ice cubes tinkling.
“What is it?” I ask warily.
Another jiggle. “Just drink it.”
“Is it poisoned?”
She laughs and for a moment, I sit in that sound. A pretty, pretty laugh. From a pretty, pretty woman. With just a hint of sadness in her eyes.
I frown.
She moves toward me, presses the glass into my hand.
“It’s just a honey rosemary mule.”
Twenty-Three
Nova
He looksat me like I’m a bug under the microscope.
Or like how Steve stares up at me when I pull out the jar of peanut butter but don’t give him a special treat.
“It’s a honey rosemary Moscow mule,” I semi-repeat, handing it to him. “Notpoisoned,” I add after he just stares at it suspiciously.
His eyes flick up, the golden flecks sparkling in the bright lights of the kitchen.
There’s the barest hint of pink on his cheeks from the cold, also maybe from the two shots of vodka he took in short succession.
Or maybe because he was furious at me.
Yelling at me.
