Page 34 of The Pansy Paradox
“I think it was you,” I say.
He touches his shirt, which is still mostly pristine white and wrinkle-free despite what we’ve been through. My T-shirt, I note, is splattered with blood, something Agent Darnelle hasn’t mentioned.
Yet.
“They were”—I shrug—“showing off? They’d do that every summer when I returned from the Academy or when I had friends from the Enclave visit.” It’s why Mort claims it’s never just a skirmish in King’s End. When he’s around, it never is.
“I see,” Agent Darnelle says, although he doesn’t sound convinced. “As I was saying, I’m wondering if you’d allow me to…” He trails off.
No, he hesitates. Really? Agent Darnelle? I didn’t think it was in his nature to hesitate.
“I’m wondering if you’d allow me to inspect the wound.” Here, a hint of pink infuses those cheekbones. Such a schoolboy blush on someone so dignified and competent is … well, it’s downright adorable.
“Make sure they didn’t break the skin,” he continues. “Maybe spread a little balm on the spots you can’t reach on your own?”
Blush. Blush. Blush. Like I said, adorable.
“Of course. Let me start the tea.” I deposit the bottles and jars on the kitchen counter, glass against granite singing out. I set the kettle to boil and measure the tea leaves. I line up the jars in the order that I’ll add the ingredients once the tea has brewed.
“Okay.” I turn toward the kitchen table, grab the hem of my T-shirt, and start to yank.
Agent Darnelle scoots back in his chair and covers his eyes as if he’s never seen a bare shoulder.
“I’m wearing a sports bra,” I say.
He lowers his hands. “What?”
“A sports bra. I could wear it to the farmers market, or to the gym, or wherever. No one would mind.”
Not even my stuffiest neighbors would. The top is completely sturdy and utilitarian without a single whiff of sexiness about it. He nods, so I peel the T-shirt off, hiding any doubt that might be lingering in my own eyes. For good measure, I wad up the material and toss it into the pantry. Blood stains out of sight = blood stains out of mind. Or so I hope.
When I meet his gaze again, a stealth smile plays across his lips, there and gone almost before I can register it.
“Well, that is fetching.”
So, yes, sturdy, utilitarian, and pink with white polka dots. It’s a match for my umbrella, and I pull it on every time I need a bit of luck.
I turn again, fingers reaching for the small of my back. “Did they break the skin?”
He steps behind me. He is still so hot, and I mean that literally. Heat radiates from him. He smells of soil and sweat, a hint of that spicy vanilla scent lingering in the air.
“Everything seems intact, but it’s a nasty hit.”
“They got me more than once, same spot.” Screamers are uncanny that way. I nod toward the pantry again. “Bottom shelf, there’s some Tupperware with?—”
“You’ve made a contribution.” He nods toward the tea. “Now it’s my turn.”
From a cargo pocket, he removes a small container and uncaps it. I brace for the aroma, but nothing comes. My mother’s mixture—secured in its Tupperware—uses tea tree oil and eucalyptus as major ingredients. It doesn’t just reek, it clings. For days. Even after multiple showers.
But it also works.
Agent Darnelle’s balm has all the presence of fragrance-free lotion.
“Special issue,” he says. “I was recently in the Sahara.” His tone betrays nothing. He could’ve been in Cabo San Lucas, baking in the sun, for how calm his voice is. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
I tense, anticipating cold goo against my skin. Instead, the balm goes on light and warm, and his touch is sure and steady against my skin. It takes all my willpower not to lean into the caress.
