Page 62 of Dissonance

“Talk to you later, Mo Chridhe.”

“I still don’t know what that means,” I murmur into the clean scent of his t-shirt. “Don’t think I didn’t try to look.”

He laughs, before saying, “Worker bee,” which has my eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Really?”

“Don’t know. Maybe.” He shrugs, then points at the bag still untouched in front of me. “It’s cantaloupe.”

He leaves without further explanation, and the silence in his wake lasts approximately three seconds before Mae’s rushing in, bouncing on the spot with uncontained hysteria.

“Oh. My. God,” she says in the most dramatic whisper that’s somehow louder than a shout. “Is he for real? Can he teach Jackson some tricks, because oh my god.”

I pull the bag closer and peek inside, lifting out a small plastic container of diced melon. Saliva pools in my mouth, my stomach rumbling as I crack it open and hunt for the smallest piece. Popping it into my mouth, I groan, the sweet flavor stronger, brighter, better than it’s ever been before.

“You’re smiling,” Mae says, watching me the way you’d watch a baby animal at the zoo.

“I’m eating breakfast,” I mutter around another piece of fruit, refusing to look at her.

“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

I reach back into the bag and brush against a small packet, the plastic crinkly under my fingertips. Pausing, I pull out plain crackers tucked at the bottom.

“Back up snacks… Oh, honey, you’re in trouble.”

No, it’s just what he’s been doing every day this week. Bringing something alongside whatever he’s trying, just in case.

“He’s incredibly thoughtful.”

“He’s practical,” I say, because practical is easy. Practical is responding to a situation. Being thoughtful implies something personal, and I’m not sure I’m ready to know which one he is. Whether the coffee and the cantaloupe and the crackers is because of me, or because of what I’m carrying.

Tucking the crackers into my bag, I finish my coffee as Mae disappears, the warmth of it settling in my stomach for once without complaint, which alone feels like a small miracle. My laptop pings, and I groan when I see the email.

Sender: Dad

Subject: Lunch?

Short and to the point, my father.

I press my palms flat against the front of my shirt, fingers pausing just below my ribs. If he wants lunch, it means one thing. He wants to discuss business. Whether I’m managing, whether it’s time to reconsider his offer. And right now, the absolute last thing I want is another conversation about it.

Especially when I’m still holding the smoking gun he’d use to convince me.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, then hit reply.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lockie

Cooper

Can I replace you?

Am I allowed to replace you?

Gunner might just be my new favorite bodyguard.

Sorry!