Page 33 of Mess With Me

She smiles, but it drops away quickly. She reaches for the sugar, carefully pouring exactly one and a half teaspoons into her mug. Next she measures out three teaspoons of creamer. As in, she opens the individual creamers and pours them into the spoon before tipping the spoon into the coffee. “It’s the ratio,” she explains, like that helps make it make sense.

I sip my coffee, watching her stir it just so, then take a test sip. She nods and takes a sip from the cup directly. “You think I’m weird, right?”

“Yes.”

She grins. It’s a beautiful sight.

“So, I just wanted to tell you…” She hesitates. “I don’t normally need so much rescuing.”

She’s been thinking about this.

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m some damsel in distress. I backpacked around Southeast Asia by myself when I was twenty.”

So she’d be okay with Thailand.

“I moved to London without telling anyone I’d applied to grad school. Oh, and I ran my own business during college.”

“Doing what?”

She goes pink. It’s fucking adorable.

“A friend and I set up a matchmaking business.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“After we hooked up a few friends—who are both married now, I’ll add—we started running it by donation. She needed money to stay in school, and it was pretty fun to see the matches working out. I always know when a couple’s going to work out…”

I sit back and watch as Sasha talks animatedly about compatibility and personality traits and something called love languages. I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about, but I could listen to her talk about it all day.

“Anyway,” she says, seeing the server coming our way. “I promise I can take care of myself. You should know that. It’s just been a bad few weeks.”

When the server comes, Sasha orders a full breakfast-for-dinner—pancakes, eggs, and sausage. She explains very carefully and almost apologetically how she likes her eggs and asks if she can please substitute one pancake for a piece of toast and if she could please have some honey, too.

The server’s eyebrows draw closer together with each request, but Sasha gives her such a sweet smile that by the end, the older woman smiles indulgently.

She’s difficult without being difficult. It’s fascinating to watch, and it’s endearing as fuck.

I opt for just a refill on my coffee. I’m not hungry when I’m on alert, and I’m not going to let my guard down until we’re at my place in Quince Valley.

After we’re alone again, I study her for a minute as she worries at the collar of her shirt. Then I set my coffee down. “I don’t think you’re a damsel in distress, Sasha. Most people don’t have brothers involved in dangerous shit who drag their innocent sisters into it.”

“No, I’m just an idiot. At least Leila and Cal were smart enough to move to the other side of the country this year to get away from him.”

“You’re not an idiot,” I say, anger flaring in my chest. “None of this is on you. It’s on your brother.” I can barely get the word out without spitting it. It’s a good thing Lionel’s got me staying away from him. I don’t know what I’d do if he was within reaching distance, but it would probably land me in a holding cell.

Sasha doesn’t let go of her collar, just twists it in her fingers. Then she drops her hand, looking down. “I can’t believe all those articles about Sam were right.” Her voice wobbles slightly. I want to tell her not to shed a fucking tear for her piece of shit brother. But then she finally looks at me, and she must see the thought in my face, because she says, “He wasn’t always like this. I mean, he was always ambitious, always had to be the best at everything. But he didn’t cheat to get to where he is.”

Her eyes go watery, and she blinks fast, looking up.

Suddenly I see it. The little girl with the larger-than-life big brother. I’ve read the file. Sam Macklin was a football star, the lead in the high school play, and valedictorian of his high school and university class. It was hero worship, and even today, she wanted him to be the hero he was in her mind.

My hands clench.No feelings,I remind myself.This is a job. Nothing personal.

But the only thing I can think of is personal. It’s my own family and how I’d feel if one of them took a dark path. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to believe it until the evidence was right in my fucking face.

“I’m sorry, Sasha” is all I can think to say as a tear rolls down her cheek. She’s got something in her hands—I can’t quite tell what it is, but I see a spot of yellow in her palm.

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