Page 21 of Over the Edge

She hesitated. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

We kept walking, and I let the silence stretch while she processed that.

“How many aliases have you had?” I asked finally.

She exhaled hard. “Too many.”

“And do they all like pistachio gelato?”

She shot me a sideways glance. “Do all of yours like espresso?”

“There’s only one of me, sweetheart.”

She huffed a breath that might have been a laugh.

We ended up at a stone overlook behind the palace, where the cliff dropped straight to the sea and cannons stood guard, relics from a prettier, bloodier time. The hike up the hill had done little to dampen her restless energy. She paced. I leaned against the wall and finished my espresso while she wore a groove in the pavement.

She stopped suddenly and turned toward me. “I think I envy you.”

Not what I’d expected her to say. “Because of my devastating good looks?”

“Anyone ever mention you have an over-inflated ego?”

“It’s not ego when it’s true.”

She gave a soft snort.

I set my empty cup on the stone wall, studying her face. The afternoon sun caught in her eyes, turning them the color of sea glass. “So what do you envy?”

“The certainty. You’re Flynn. Just Flynn. Colt Mercer might be the cover, but you seem to have no trouble keeping Flynn and Colt separate.” She gestured vaguely with her cone. “I’ve been so many people that sometimes I forget which parts are actually me. I don’t even remember what my real laugh sounds like.” Her voice was low and sad and yanked at something in my chest I’d spent too many years trying to keep buried. “I don’t know who I am when I’m not playing a role.”

I pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “I know who you are. You’re a woman who likes pistachio gelato.”

She scoffed. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“No. Pistachio is the worst.”

“Excuse me?” She whirled to face me fully, genuine offense flashing in those sea-glass eyes. “Pistachio is sophisticated. Complex. It’s not some basic vanilla or chocolate?—”

“It’s green ice cream that tastes like nuts.”

“It’s nuanced.”

“It’s pretentious.”

“You’re an ass.” But she was almost smiling now, and something tight in my chest loosened. This fire—this passion over something as ridiculous as gelato flavors—this was real. This was Lyric.

“There she is,” I said softly.

Her smile faltered. “What?”

“The woman who will defend pistachio gelato to the death. That’s not Elisa Deveraux talking. That’s you.” I reached for her chin, gently, and made her look at me. Her eyes were wide and uncertain. I wasn’t the only one off-balance here.

She recovered first and stepped back on the pretense of discarding the rest of her cone.

“What about you, Shepherd?” she asked, brushing her hands together. “Got any ghosts you’re hiding from?”

“Sure. A whole goddamn platoon of them. But you’re right. I do know who I am.”

---