Page 21 of Unbroken

"Okay.”

“I pulled a casserole out of the freezer.”

The corner of his lips quirks up. How did I not know that he had a dimple there?

My heart turns over in my chest. I wish that it wouldn’t.

“You did?”

“Yeah. There were a lot. Whatever it is—we can eat it as a side dish or something. Text me what you need from the grocery store, and I’ll add it to my list."

He smiles—a flash of white teeth against those sinfully full lips.

God, he’s so fucking hot, all raw, masculine brutality. The hint of a beard on his jaw, the coiled muscle under the black shirt that fits like a second skin, the tats inked across his skin. He was more awkward when he was younger—shoulders too big for his body. But now he’s all man.

Fuck.

Rugged and broad, there’s a reason heads snap aroundwherever he goes. And when he turns those warm brown eyes on you, there’s no escaping.

He hasn’t dated yet. I know he hasn’t. It’s too soon. But I wonder if he will. I wonder if he’ll remarry. I wonder who she’ll be. I wonder if I’ll like her.

I hate these kinds of thoughts, so I push them away. But when he starts to smile at me?—

"Look at you, all grown up and mature." He shakes his head.

"Shut up," I tell him. But I can't help my smile, adding, “You still remember that night? You had to come get me because I ran out of gas on the highway?”

His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. He remembers.

“You didn’t just run out of gas,” he says, his voice low and rough. “You called us crying. Said someone was following you.”

Us.I called Mariah and Vadka. My anchors.

Heat floods my face, but I still laugh. “I wasn’tcrying,”I lie, even though we both know the truth.

His smile deepens, those gorgeous lips tilting in a way that makes my stomach knot. “You were terrified.”

Not mocking. Not cruel. Just a bittersweet memory.

“You always came when I called you,” I say, quieter.

“Of course I did,” he adds, softer now. Serious. For a second, the air between us vibrates. “You were just a kid then.”

Neither of us talks.

I’m not anymore.

"Do you actually change your car oil and check your tires now?" he asks, smirking.

I don't tell him that, no, I'm still absolute shit with my car.

“Well…”

He smiles and shakes his head. "I gotta get back to work."

"What's going on? Is everything okay?"

I hear things at the bar sometimes—before the Kopolovs do—but not always.

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