Page 109 of Unexpected Heroine

She wobbles her head back and forth like she has a rubber neck. “Good to see your terrible humor is intact.” With a teasing harrumph, she folds her arms over her chest and pouts. “Not my fault that they don’t recognize genius when they see it.”

Stella put a partially shriveled tomato in a glass case and labeled it with a placard reading: Raisin. Mixed Medium.

The memory makes me chuckle, which then leads to a hiss of pain from my smarting rib cage. The meds Kri gave me earlier haven’t kicked in yet.

Grabbing my phone, I check the time to get an idea of how long until they start working. Right as I swipe the screen, a text comes in.

“It’s him,” I announce. A giddy wave of excitement dances through me, making my heels bounce and shoulders shimmy.

Freya and Marley whip their heads to face me, brows raised expectantly. Stella peers over my shoulder to read along while Kri paces behind me.

As soon as the words on the screen have permeated, I begin frantically tapping out my reply.

Freya jumps up. “Well?”

Stella answers for me, which is good because I’m not done typing. “He’s fine. One more stop to make, then they’ll be home.”

“Thank you,” I mutter to Stella, then hit send. “He also asked how I was.”

With her looking over my shoulder, I’m suddenly grateful that I didn’t save him in my new phone as Dominant Tomer, which I considered. Instead, I changed him to My Babe with a pink heart beside it.

No matter his legal name, he’ll still be my babe. And the holder of my heart.

Me:

I saw your little blip on Kri’s phone on the Redleg tracking thing. Why did you go to that house? What did you do? Are you okay?

Before he has a chance to read the text, let alone reply, I’m already typing the next one. And the one after that.

Me:

Kri told me you were going to see Tasha. Was she at that house again? Is that why you went there? Also, is she okay?

Me:

I love you. Please be careful. I’m fine, btw.

My Babe??:

. . .

Me:

What’s the other stop you’re making?

My Babe??:

. . .

Me:

Don’t forget Waffle House.

Stella playfully swats me on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Man alive! Give him a chance to read one message before rapid-firing ten more at him.”

For whatever reason—probably because of who I am and how my brain works—I picture him dressed like Captain America with a shield, deflecting my text messages and sending them into the rafters.

His reply is exactly as I’d expect, considering the sender.

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