My nose wrinkled without thought. “No thanks.”
He pressed himself against the counter to my side, his face turned in my direction. “You not like beer?”
“I don’t drink.” I waited for the questions, the ribbing that so often came from guys in the bureau.
“Water or juice?”
Surprise flittered through me. It was refreshing not to either brush aside jibes or explain myself. Both were laborious, and it wasn’t anyone’s business but my own. After years of witnessing booze fuelling my old man’s anger, I had no intention of ever being held hostage by alcohol.
A smile lifted the corners of my mouth. “Water would be great, thanks.”
With a nod, he stepped away and headed to the fridge while I drained the pasta. Once done, I tipped it into the sauce I’d made, along with the veggies and chicken. Two bowls were filled, and we sat at the table. The scene felt strangely domesticated and easy. The thought took me by surprise. Truth be told, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat at a table and ate dinner with anyone, let alone ate at a table by myself. I was all for eating while standing in the kitchen or with my feet up in front of the TV usually.
“This is good. Thanks.”
Wide-eyed, I stared at the empty bowl before him. I was halfway through my bowl, which was fast considering we’d sat a few short minutes ago. “Hungry?” Amusement lit my voice and my gaze jumped to his.
His own humour shone in his eyes. “Yep.”
“There’s more. I made plenty.” As shifters, our metabolism ran high the best of times. His body would need more calories to get through this adjustment period, plus the sheer size of Thatch suggested he’d need more anyway.
He laughed. “Why feed an army when you can feed the Hulk.”
I froze, my fork midway to my mouth. Food lodged in my throat and I gasped, struggling to swallow it without choking.
“Shit.” Thatch’s large hand made contact with my back once, twice, both times so hard my teeth rattled and had I not been a shifter, a bone or five would have broken. Coughing and spluttering, I finally gathered a breath, my food dislodging from my throat. “Callen, man, you okay?” Gentle circles soothed my back. I’d be bruised there for sure, but they’d fade by the end of the day.
I nodded and pushed my food away. Besides Hazel, not a single person I’d ever met had said that ridiculous phrase before, ever. Sadness clogged my throat. Again. A gentle grip to the back of my neck brought me back to my surroundings. Swallowing hard, I winced at my sore throat.
“What happened?” His thumb stroked my hairline. I relaxed a little at the movement, accepting the comfort he offered.
“What you just said,”—gravel laced my words—“you ever said that before?” I angled my head towards him, disappointed when his hand moved away.
After a moment’s confusion, understanding filled his eyes. Lips together, he shook his head slowly. Compassion radiated off him, thick, heavy, and comforting. I wanted to bask in it, much preferring that than the sorrow pressing down on me. “Your sister.” He didn’t need to ask or clarify. It simply was. This was something I would have to get used to over the days, weeks, or hell, even months we’d be working together. I tried to take comfort from that. It was much better than fighting it and running away with my tail between my legs.
Smiling, I ran a hand over my face before returning my gaze to him. Relief flickered in his eyes when his gaze settled on my mouth. “She always said that, probably from the time she was six. It made no sense at all.” I laughed, the sound surprising me as it lightened the heaviness that surrounded me. “Who compares an army to the Hulk?” I snorted, my eyes dropping to his mouth when it lifted into a small smile.
“Well, the Hulk was pretty badass and could beat Superman.”
“Nuh-uh, you did not just say that.”
“What?” His grin was wide. There was zero innocence in his question or his face.
“You know what…,” I croaked, trailing off. Taking a drink of water, I knew it was time we talked. There’d be time to correct him later. We needed to get back to our mission. Thatch had recovered as much as he was able with us under the hammer, and my grief needed to focus on finding Hazel’s killer. The chair squeaked when I repositioned it to face Thatch more fully. He mimicked the movement. “You ready?”
“Yeah, as I’ll ever be.”
That, I could relate to.
“Okay, the op,” he started.
My face fell, and I looked down but not quick enough for Thatch not to react.
“Hey.” His dark hand rested on my arm. I focussed on the comparison. I had an olive complexion, but next to the depth of Thatch’s skin tone… the difference was striking, beautiful, and it made me look pasty as hell. Heck, was I really that pale? “Look at me.”
My head jerked up, my brain dragging itself away from the distraction of his hand on my arm.
“I know you want to know more about Hazel.”
I winced. “Sorry.” Once again, I had to remind myself why mixing personal and work was such a bad idea. Work was messy and complicated, as was life. When the two worlds collided, it was inevitable it would cause a new strand of mayhem and confusion. I could see that so clearly with the involvement of my sister, in addition to the unexpected pull I felt towards Thatcher. “I’m okay.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I can only imagine how difficult this is for you, and we’ll get there, I promise. But I need to tell you about the op first. We can then start to make sense of everything. Sound good?”
The man was right. I had no choice but to agree and let
