Page 8 of Savagely Yours
“Is that why my food’s cold sometimes?”
“No, it’s because your cheap ass won’t pay for priority delivery.”
I elbowed him in the stomach. Then, needing space to breathe without inhaling his body wash, I went around the two-bedroom condo, grabbing every candle I could find. While I searched, he went to a drawer in the kitchen and grabbed the extra batteries I kept there, yet I had no recollection of ever telling him where I kept my batteries.
“You’ve surveyed my place before or something?” I half-teased. “How’d you know where to find those?”
He shined the light beneath his chin, his voice going from smooth to raspy. “I know your place very well, Ms. Tapley. Very well.”
I faked a look of pure horror. “It’s…it’syou.”
“The monster under your bed? Why, yes.”
“It makes sense now, why you weren’t there when I went looking for you.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Why is that?”
“Because you…ghosted…me.”
He paused and then broke out into a laugh.
I grinned, chewing on my bottom lip. Maybe therewassomething to whatever knockout drug the paramedic had givenme. This was the lightest I’d felt since I started working on the POTUS-appointed case. It was as if the weight of what I’d been called to do had been momentarily set aside.
After lighting and switching on all the candles we’d managed to locate, which only made the situation marginally better, we took a seat on the sofa. I’d slept long enough to feel refreshed, but I knew it was merely a matter of time before fatigue claimed him. Once he was out, I would go back to bed.
“Do you have a battery pack by any chance?” I asked him.
He settled into the cushions, the back of his head resting at the top of the sofa, and turned his face toward me. “I do. I have several. They’re all fully charged. Got some solar ones, too.”
“The way you prepare in a crisis, remind me to ask you to be my husband if the lights ever come back on.”
“If I’m lucky, they’ll come on in five, four, three, two, one…”
We waited.
Nothing happened.
He snapped his fingers. “Damn.”
“Was that your first-ever proposal?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am, though I fear it might be my last.”
“Maybe not. You’re…attractive.”
“I prefer to do the asking in that situation,” he said. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that pause.”
I’d paused to avoid unleashing a slew of fanatical jibberish that would have probably sent him into hiding in the guest room—handsome, beautiful, gorgeous, funny, laid back, easy to talk to, respectful, supportive, strong, sexy.
“Have you ever proposed to anyone?” I prodded.
He shook his head. “No. Haven’t found the one yet.”
“Well, what’s your type? Maybe I can help you find her. Or them. I don’t want to assume.”
“Assume I like women?” he asked. “Or assume I’m polyamorous?”
“All of the above.”
