Page 47 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
“I did it with this.” He pointed to his wristwatch and held out his arm. He had annoyingly nice arms. Big bones with those ridiculous forearms displayed prominently with his sleeves rolled up. But then he bent down and took off his shoes and that was the thing that threw her. It was so... human. For the first time, she realized that a part of her had always wondered if King might actually be a robot.
She looked back at the device on his wrist. Alex was instantly leery. And jealous.
“What’s that?”
“Bug detector. Among other things. It finds anything that’s wired and blocks anything that’s wireless.”
“Where did you get it, and why didn’t they give me one?”
“I made it.” He sounded almost bored.
“You made it?” Did the words come out more mocking than she’d intended? Yes. Did she take them back? Not even a little bit.
But King, the jerkface, justshrugged. “I make things.”
“Youmake things? What? In your Evil Genius lab?” That time, she really did mean to sound mocking and she wasn’t even ashamed of it.
“Everyone needs a hobby.” Then he turned back to straighten White Shirt number 10 (this one was linen). “The room is clean,Alex.” There was something in the way he looked back at her, soft and a little indulgent. “I wouldn’t take a chance...” He trailed off, like there was more to that sentence, but he caught the words and pulled them back. “I wouldn’t take a chance.” There was a period that time. It wasn’t even up for debate. “Go take a shower. Or do your nails—”
“Do my nails?”
“Or...” There was a shelf of old paperbacks by the wet bar. The literary equivalent oftake a penny, leave a penny, and he pulled one off the shelf at random and tossed it in her direction. She caught it one-handed. “Read something.”
“I’ve read it.” Alex tossed it back. He caught it with his nondominant hand because, even in that, he had to top her.
“No, you haven’t.” He tucked the book back in its place.
“End of chapter seven,” she said flatly. “The heroine shoots the hero in the leg.”
For a moment, King just stood there, blinking. Then he started flipping through the pages, searching. Desperate to prove she was lying. When he finally found it, he stopped and looked at her, and Alex didn’t even try not to smirk.
“You’re not the only one with a good memory, you know?”
He turned back to the shelf and reached for another one, but it was all Alex could do not to roll her eyes. “She pretty much falls in love with him in chapter five because he buys her a foot warmer. Which, by the way, just proves how low the bar is for most men, romantically speaking.”
He picked up another paperback, but Alex just crossed her arms and said, “Her Scottish ones are better.” King was looking at her like she’d just sprouted a third eye. “What? Everything is better in Scotland. The heroes wear kilts and live in castles.” She wiggled her eyebrows just to mock him. “Come on. If you’re going to have a fictional man, he might as well have a kilt. And a castle.” Alex thought that was an excellent point, but King didn’t look convinced. He just stared at the shelf, bewildered.
“Have you read all of these?”
No, she hadn’t read them all. In fact, she hadn’t read anything fun in a very long time. But that didn’t change the fact that—“I used to read romance all the time to my...”
And then she stopped. Alex didn’t know what was worse, the look in King’s eyes or the memory of Zoe lying in a hospital bed, too weak to turn the pages. Alex had done that to her.It was Alex’s fault.
“Sterling...”
“Myself,” Alex lied. “When I was bored or alone. You should try it. Reading for fun. It makes one a moreempatheticperson.” She stuck her tongue out, then went to the bathroom and closed the door. She turned the shower on full blast and gripped the edge of the sink and tried not to think about why she didn’t want to look in the mirror.
“Alex?” There was a gentle knock. “Open up.”
“What is it?” She jerked open the door, and there he was, soft eyes full of something that looked a lot like worry.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She went to close the door again, but he blocked it in a way they didn’t have to teach at spy school.
“Alex—” he started, but it was already too late. It was already too much.
“Don’t call me that.”
