I gaze up at him in silence, into his eyes that go on forever.
“Why are you looking at me like you’re never going to see me again?” he asks, brushing his thumbs back and forth over my cheeks.
“Because I hope I do see you again.” I know he’s careful, calculating, the most prepared person I know, but things still happen—things can still go wrong.
A gentle smile spreads across his face, “This is our part, just you and me. And the next time I see you, the only ones still standing—” he takes his holster from my hand and tucks it into the back of his jeans, “will be you and me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Brett
One Year Ago
Routines are great, until they start driving you crazy. I never thought I would be the one to believe that, but it’s true. It’s a completely normal Tuesday, which includes Colson sauntering through my office door at noon. He does the exact same thing whenever I’m here—walks into my office, shuts the door, and sits down in the chair next to the window.
Except today, when he walks through the door, I’m wondering where he’s been in my house—in mine and Bowen’s house—and when.
Did he come in through the front door? Did he walk up the steps to the back deck and come in through the sliding glass door? Did he pet Waylon on his way to the kitchen?
I’m obsessing now, even as Colson rips open his Twix wrapper, takes one bar out, and slides it onto the edge of the desk. I stare at the candy for a moment, remembering the last time he brought me something to eat. I can’t prove that he did something to that latte, or whatever it was, but I know he did.
Just like I know he left that goddamn smoothie in my fridge.
I shake it off, trying to refocus before finally picking up the candy bar, “Thanks.” I bite off the end.
He might be a deviant, but I’ll still eat his chocolate as long as I saw him open the wrapper.
“What are you doing right now?” he bites the end off of his half, “Want to get lunch?”
“I probably shouldn’t.”
I’m trying to maintain firm boundaries, especially since Colson likes to say inappropriate things, throw out ominous warnings, and then act like nothing ever happened. He’s so toxic, and I’m an idiot for putting up with his nonsense, because things like yesterday are what happen when you decide to give someone the benefit of the doubt—again. You end up with phantom smoothies in your refrigerator and start to question your own sanity.
“We don’t have to go to Cincy,” Colson glances at his phone and then slides it into his pocket, “I’m sure there’s a Burger King around here somewhere.”
I give a tight-lipped smile, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I’m shocked by how even my voice is while a hurricane rages in my mind.
“Why?”
“Because,” I take a deep breath, “there was a smoothie in my refrigerator yesterday morning.”
Colson just stares at me, still chewing. And I stare back, because that should be explanation enough. He swallows the chocolate, glances to the side in confusion, and then back at me.
“So, you don’t want to get lunch because you drank a smoothie yesterday?”
I blink.
Are you kidding me right now?
“No,” I clarify with a tone sharp enough to cut glass, “there was a smoothie in my refrigerator yesterday morning and I didn’t put it there.”
“I thought you liked those,” he replies, unfazed.
Now he’s just grating on my nerves. It’s bad enough that I had to deal with Hannah creeping around the house after I moved in with Bowen. I can’t just sit idly by while Colson does the same.
Quit being a coward and just say it.
I look him dead in the eye, “Did you put it there?” It’s an accusation rather than a question because I know he did it, I just don’t know how.
Colson chews his thumbnail, thoroughly enjoying my irritation. He doesn’t seem to care who I think’s been creeping around my house.
“Would it make you feel better if it was me?” he taunts.
“Just like it was you who put—” I pause, waving at him in disgust, “in my coffee? That qualifies as assault!”
“Well,” Colson smiles with amusement, but his tone is laced with poison, “no one can ever say I don’t know what you like to drink.”
“Did you do it?” I almost plead with him, “Did you really…” I don’t even want to say it out loud, it’s too messed up and yet, so absurd.
“Guess that depends whether you remember what I taste like,” he says with nonchalance.
I stare at him for a moment, narrowing my eyes as I study his face. The longer I look at his eyes, the more I recognize the subtle glint that directly corresponds to the way the corner of his mouth twitches. Then I realize I still know him. I still know how his mind works.
“Colson, you’re so full of shit,” I sneer.
He gives a shrug, refusing to admit to anything, as usual, “We don’t have to get lunch if you’re not in the mood. I also said I’d take you to Colorado. We could still go.”
As much as I don’t want it to and contrary to my utter contempt for him, a wave of butterflies sweeps through my stomach.
