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“Not yet,” she says with a grin. “But Azalea’ll make it special for you. Not Big Mike though.” She pauses, then says, “Something’s been bothering me.”
“And you didn’t tell me about it immediately? I don’t believe it.”
She shoves me with her shoulder, but her smile falls flat. “Do you care that I’m a bartender? I mean, because of your parents?”
I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, giving the question its due. “No,” I say after a moment. “What you do makes people happy. It’s all about creating joy. Besides, if it wasn’t alcohol for them, it would have been something else.”
“Thank you for saying that,” she says softly. “I was worried it might bring up bad memories.”
“A lot of things do,” I say. “If I look at it in the wrong light, a can of soda could bring up just as many bad memories. But there are plenty of good memories that involve some light drinking too.”
“Like Wednesday night.” Her tone is wry, and I’m glad for it.
“Obviously.”
“You know, I feel like we should ask for proof of life for Pumpkin.”'
“You think Big Mike did her in, huh?” I ask, putting an arm around her. “Maybe you should stop listening toThe Murderer Next Door.”
“Not because of my ideations about the woman across the alley?”
My smile drops. “We don’t know what was going on with her, but maybe Big Mike will.”
“We can probably just start calling him Mike.”
“No way. We should respect his carefully layered façade.”
She leans in and kisses me. “I’d like to do away with your carefully layered façade.”
“You already have,” I say honestly, “you did it almost instantly. I should buy you a trophy.”
“I’d put it over the fireplace.” She points to the mantel, and I can see it there—an ugly silver cup, the kind I never got for anything, because they don’t give them out to the kids who are good at math and coding.
“Are you trying to give me reasons not to get you one?” I ask.
“No, maybe I just want to make sure you choose a pretty one.”
I kiss the top of her hair, her forehead, her mouth. I want to carve her likeness into my mind the way it’s already carved into my soul. I want—
“Danny,” she says, her tone uncharacteristically serious.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s all going to change, isn’t it?”
She looks scared as she says it, and I’d do anything to take that fear away from her, even though I’m carrying it myself.
“Yes,” I admit. “It already has, though, and it’s changed for the good.” I smile, because it was a stupid thing to say to someone who’s broken an ankle. I tap her cast with two fingers. “Other than this, but you’ll be free of it soon.”
“Speaking of which…” Her eyes studying me, the cat-eye makeup giving them a more playful tilt. “You still haven’t signed it.”
“I will,” I tell her. “But I’ve decided it’s going to mean something when I do, and the words haven’t come to me yet.”
“Now you’re really building it up,” she says with one of her biggest grins. “If you write something basic likeget well soon, it’s going to be a downer. I expect A-level material.”
I laugh as I run my fingers along her jaw, cupping it. “Nothing but the best for you, boss.” Then I kiss her, hard, because I can feel it too—the currents coming for us.
ChapterThirty
