Page 35 of Bottles & Blades

“Unlock your door.”

I shift closer as Dave clambers to his feet, walks down the hall, struggling to unlock his door because his hands are shaking so badly.

Jean-Michel doesn’t help.

Neither do I.

We just stand there, watching his attempts to insert the keys.

Eventually, he manages to unlock his door, to push it open, but as he’s about to step inside, Jean-Michel speaks again, his voice so cold that I shiver.

“Don’t forget that now I know whereyoulive.”

Dave freezes.

Then lurches forward, slamming the door behind him.

Jean-Michel stares at it for a long moment then turns back toward my apartment. His eyes flare when he sees me standing by the open door, and I hold my ground as he comes near.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, running the backs of his knuckles over my cheek.

God, I love it when he does that.

“For what?” I whisper.

“That you had to see that.” He ushers me inside, closes the door behind him, and glares down at the lock as he engages it.

“Are you kidding?” I ask. “That wasamazing.”

His frown as he turns to face me again is fierce.

I move to him, want to reach my hand up and smooth out the lines on his forehead, around his eyes, but I don’t have the courage to go quite that far.

Instead, I squeeze his forearm. “He’s been doing that for months and management doesn’t care, and”—my mouth curves—“I don’t think I have to worry about him any longer. Now”—I tug him back to the couch—“you didn’t finish your food.”

His frown doesn’t smooth out.

Not as I push him back down onto the cushions and shove the plate in his hands.

Not until I smile at him and say,

“If you eat your dinner, I’ll even share my ice cream.”

I’m moving.

That last thing I remember is resting back against Jean-Michel’s chest.

He finished his plate.

We made a decent-sized dent in the ice cream.

And…

We talked.

About my classes. Abouthisjob and all the places it took him.

And then about nothing important—the books on my shelves, the dry tomes that he pretends are books on his at his place.

---