Page 20 of Whiskey & Wreckage

He doesn’t look up. “I told you. Private investigator. Same skillset, fewer moral complications.”

“Right. Because breaking into places totally screams moral high ground.”

His mouth quirks at the corner. “Only the ones who deserve it.”

Okay, dangerous and justice-oriented. Hot.

I don’t say that out loud. I do, however, tap around on my phone and order pizza. It feels like the least I can do,considering he basically rescued me from my own hardware-induced disaster. Twice now, if we’re keeping score.

“You have a preference?” I ask, pretending I don’t already know what I’m going to order.

“Not picky.”

I smirk. “That sounds like a challenge.”

He finishes tightening something and glances at me. “I’m trusting you.”

“Big mistake, Ashcroft.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Noted.”

Fifteen minutes later, the door is finished. He tests it, locks it, unlocks it, opens and closes it a few times. Then stands up like a tall, smug statue of competence and manly achievement.

“Done,” he says, brushing off his hands.

I clap. “Look at you. Fully functional adult.”

He side-eyes me. “You’re one to talk. You tried to install a deadbolt with a screwdriver that literally said ‘not for metal.’”

“Okay, rude. And also accurate.”

The pizza arrives a few minutes after that, and I throw him a cold beer from the fridge. We sit on my living room floor again, this time with actual food and less blood. It’s nice. Comfortable. He takes a bite of his slice and lets out a very soft, very real groan of approval.

“That good?” I ask, taking a sip of my beer.

“You got the good pepperoni,” he says. “The stuff with the curled-up edges.”

“I don’t mess around when it comes to pizza.”

“You don’t mess around with anything.”

That lands in my chest like a warm weight. I look at him, and he’s already looking at me.

“You wanna play a game?” I ask, needing to shift the moment before I get too soft. “I’ve got Battle Ship.”

He lifts a brow. “Seriously?”

“You’re scared you’ll lose. It’s fine.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I dig the box out of the closet and we set it up on the floor. A few beers, a couple slices, and fifteen minutes later, we’re in full war mode.

“You’re cheating,” I accuse, squinting at him.

“How would I even cheat at Battle Ship?”

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