And I think about how Lance didn’t say a single word against Art just now. Didn’t plant doubt or push me toward suspicion.
He just asked if I believed him.
And let me answer for myself.
Chapter 23
Lance
She believes him.
Her shoulders have softened, and the tension around her eyes has eased. Whatever Art told her in that car either helped, or she’s become more resigned to doing what her father implied.
Good. That’s good.
So why does it feel like swallowing glass?
I pull open the fridge, grab what I can and set it on the counter. Behind me, Cavall’s nails click against the hardwood as he follows Genevieve to the island. I reach for a fork and manage to send it clattering to the floor.
“Jesus Christ.”
A laugh floats from behind me.
Genevieve’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed. Her hair’s fallen loose, tumbling over her shoulders in messy copper waves.
“What?” I lift a brow.
“Nothing. Just watching you assault breakfast foods.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Which makes it even sadder.”
“You want to eat or not?”
She pushes off the counter and crosses to where I’m standing, close enough that I catch that scent of hers that’s been infiltrating every corner of this cabin since she got here.
“Did you even season these?” She peers into the bowl of eggs like it’s a crime scene.
“I was getting to it.”
“With what, hopes and prayers?” She hip-checks me out of the way and her body presses against mine for half a second. Heat shoots down my spine and I stumble back.
She hip-checks me again. “Move. You’re hopeless.”
“This ismykitchen.”
“And you’re desecrating it.”
She stretches up on her toes to reach a cabinet, and her shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin.
I look away.
“Sit down,” she says. “Let me work.”
The island has barstools, and I pull one out, sitting down. Cavall trots over and drops his head on my knee, and I pet him while Genevieve moves around my kitchen like she belongs here.
She’s different when she cooks. The tension she carries in her shoulders disappears. Her movements become fluid, and confident. She hums under her breath—off-key, the same way she was that night I caught her mopping.