Page 17 of Waging War
Rubbing the back of my neck with one hand, I offer her the small package. She eyes me cautiously before finally snatching the box and popping the lid open.
“Hoppy Birthday, Hatsel,” she reads aloud and turns to blink at me.
My eyes snap to the center of the cake, where the woman at the bakery piped the words. They’re a mess of purple icing scribbles.
“Fucking hell.” I scrub a hand over my face, trying to take the box from her.
Someone kill me. Please.
Hazel dances just out of reach, and I swear I see the barest hint of a smile kissing her light pink lips as she studies the gift.
I relax against the counter, fully prepared for an onslaught of smart-ass comments. She surprises me by smirking before swiping her finger straight through her name. The sugary icing on the tip of her finger broaches her lips just as she pops her mouth open. That same finger flattens a white smear across her tongue, and she takes her time sucking it clean.
I swallow.
There’s a dangerous look in those yellow-gray eyes. Dangerous because what flits through them is naughty, and I don’t need any more reasons to be curious about her.
“Thank you,” she says once she places the cake on the counter.
“I’m sorry. There was this old woman in the bakery and…” I drop the explanation. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d appreciate—”
“A cake for a birthday that no one can celebrate with me?”
That snaps my mouth shut.
She casts her gaze down as her cheeks pinken. “Sorry. This was a nice thought. I just haven’t celebrated my birthday in a very long time.” Those strange eyes touch mine again. “I do appreciate the thought, even if I am your prisoner.”
My prisoner.Why do I like the sound of that?
I shift my stance before clearing my throat. “I guess Daddy isn’t the celebrating type?”
She side-eyes me before swiping more icing from the top.
I suppress a smile. For the first time since I’ve visited, Hazel looks as youthful as her twenty-four years. Her shoulders have dropped, her mouth has relaxed, and I’m almost relieved to know something other than loathing can take up space between us.
“It was sort of my mom’s thing,” she says quietly after a minute. “When we buried her, my birthday celebrations went with her.” Her voice is distant when she speaks again. “You know… she always went with purple, too.”
My mind frantically searches for the right words—any words to give her—but I find I’m not the best at comforting. Even though at this very moment, I kind of wish I was.
Don’t get distracted. This gift doesn’t change the fact that she’s off-limits, and you’ve got a job to do.
“How did you know?” She quirks a brow.
“Know what?”
“That my favorite color is purple.”
I nod to her bare feet, and she curls her toes. “Call it a hunch.”
That sneaky smile reminds me of when she ambushed me. Rusty red streaks shine through her brown hair in the dim light, and I let my eyes roam over her pretty face, smooth neck, and exposed collarbones. I’m strangely aroused by the paleness of her skin and the little freckles that sporadically mark her body.
Hazel leans in with an impish gleam. “I may or may not have purposely tortured the first guy with the task of finding this exact shade of polish.”
I imagine a burly man in all black, scouring the nail polish aisle. “To be honest, I’m shocked that he actually did it.”
She swipes the fork off the counter and jabs my bicep. “I can beprettypersuasive when provoked.”
I’ve thought of Hazel in many ways, positions, and predicaments. But in none of those visions was I standing here, enjoying her quick wit or joking with her.
