Page 20 of Dark Reasons

"Please, I need some time."

"I can come to you if that's easier."

"No! That's—just no." Juggling the packet of mac n cheese I put it in my teeth, I'm ready to rip it open. My front doorclicksbefore Jamison walks inside. He didn't even knock. "Hey," I gasp, dropping the packet, fumbling not to drop my phone too. "I'll call you back!"

Jamison's eyes dart to my phone when I set it on the counter. "Who was that?"

"Nobody."

"Have you had a phone on you this whole time?" he asks in a warning tone.

I'm already shaking my head. "Give me some credit."

"Was it with you at the hotel?"

"No! Stop the twenty questions, it's my turn. Where the heck did you go?"

He lifts a plastic bag; it's weighed down with the shape of two take-out containers. The smell of onions and cumin reach me. "Dinner."

"You disappeared to buy us something to eat?" I crinkle my brow.

"Who said I was sharing?" He undoes his jacket, draping it on one of the two basic chairs tucked against my table. I'd swiped them from the sidewalk on trash day. The hooded sweater beneath joins the jacket. I get an eyeful of his ribbed, olive-green shirt; its half-sleeves don't manage to hide his biceps or his well-defined forearms.

Quit being a creeper,I chide myself.Act cool.Leaning my back against my fridge, I tilt my nose higher while crossing my arms. "For real, what were you actually doing."

Jamison places the bag of food on my wobbly white table. "Why do you think I'm lying when you cansee and smellthis?"

"It's not like I have a reason to trust you."

"Then enlighten me. What do you think I was doing?" He rips the plastic bag straight apart at the knot, the motion quick and violent. "Killing someone before picking up a snack?"

"Maybe," I mutter. "It is what you do."

"If that bothers you, you shouldn't have hired me to do more of it."

"Okay, first, I hired you to letmedo the killing. Second, did you forget the part where the other choice was shooting myself?"

Jamison doesn't look at me as he arranges the cartons. His voice is flat, like he's discussing the weather. "If I recall, you made it clear you'd needmeto pull the trigger for you."

Rubbing the outside of my arms, I take the three steps forward to stand in front of him. The food smells delicious—I'm pretty sure he got it from the Lebanese cart on the corner—but I don't want to let my guard down. "How long have you been doing it? Being a hit man."

Jamison sits in the chair he left his jacket on. He spreads his legs, looking comfortable and entirely unbothered by my probing. "Eat," he motions.

"You said you weren't sharing."

"I bought two cartons, Selena."

I linger another second before my grumbling stomach commands me into the other chair. Grabbing the nearest box, I flip the lid back. Steam wafts around, the strong smell of meat and hummus making me salivate. "Thanks. This is a lot better than instant mac and cheese."

"You haven't tasted it yet."

"I've eaten it before." I reach towards the bag where the napkins and forks are. My nails brush the utensils before his fingers graze mine, gently tangling, pressing into the cool surface of the table. My pulse skyrockets at the intimate, unexpected touch.

"How often do you get food from that cart?" he asks lightly.

I stay very still, acting like his hand is a bear trap I'm trying not to trigger. I'm trying to make my brain function normally while his thumb strokes mine. How can he act so absent and so intentional at the same time? "I don't know, maybe once a week? Why does it matter?"

"Then the man running it, would he recognize your face if someone asked around?"

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