Fathom (Mermaids of Montana #3) - Elsa Jade Page 0,57
parts of her too.
He was holding a tray and standing so still he might’ve been frozen. His eyes were more blankly reflective than the perfectly polished tray—like he’d turned to ice.
“Come on in, Sting,” her mother said, a little more gently. “We were just talking about you.”
As Lana cut a sidelong glance at her mother, Sting said, “So I heard.”
A jolt went through her, as if she’d accidentally zapped herself. She bit back a groan when he went on, “I am your weird, worst enemy.” His unblinking stare felt accusing, like a mirror held up to her failings.
“That’s not what I said—” she started indignantly.
Her mother tsked. “If you’re going to sneak around, sometimes you’re going to hear things not meant for you.”
“I know that,” he said. “During the war, one of my missions was sneaking around to find out who wanted to kill us. Like our enemies.” His stare wasn’t just accusing, it was downright furious. So much for his invincible feelings.
“You’re not at war anymore,” Lana reminded him.
“So I thought.” Taking three long strides into the room, he deposited the tray on top of the grand piano with a clank that made her wince in sympathy for the pristine black lacquer. “I wasn’t practicing subterfuge, which I mastered long ago. I only wanted to be sure not to spill this.”
“Ooh, dessert!” exclaimed her mother, who had sidled over to peer at the tray. “But pudding doesn’t spill.”
Sting stiffened. “So I’ve discovered. I will know that next time I make it.”
Lana blinked. “You made this?”
After a moment, he lifted one shoulder in the most awkward shrug ever. “I only watched Thomas. But I recorded the ingredients and his instructions on my datpad so I might re-create silken chocolate pudding cups whenever I choose.” His jaw worked for a moment. “Although I do not know if I will be able to exactly match the cocoa or the milk or the sugar or the egg on Tritona.”
Her mother plucked one of the crystal dessert bowls and a spoon from the tray. “Things like this aren’t easy to get right on the first try. Sometimes it takes a few attempts. But sometimes when you don’t have all the exact same ingredients, that just makes it your very own special…pudding.” She slanted a glance at Lana as she silenced herself with a spoon full of pudding.
Lana narrowed her eyes at her mother—who’d identified as a “casserole queen” for most of her childhood—as if it wasn’t patently obvious that her mother was referring to more than a dessert.
Sting crossed his arms over his chest. “I was produced and programmed to kill but Thomas tells me that baking lessons should be easier.”
Though her mother coughed in amusement around her spoon, Lana focused on Sting’s broad chest. Or actually, the fitted shirt covering his chest. “Where did you get those clothes?”
“Thomas printed them for me from the supplies that Maelstrom left here.” He tugged at first one sleeve then the other, even though the shirt fit him flawlessly, as if bespoke. It was made for him, of course, since it was printed specifically to his size, along with trousers and boots, all of it in matte gray threaded with paler gray lines. Although the ensemble would not have looked out of place on a city sidewalk in some upscale downtown, it seemed like too much fashion for quiet Sunset Falls—and far too much coverage for the usually half-naked Titanyri.
“It looks good on you, Sting,” her mother said. “The silver piping brings out your eyes. By the way, this pudding is to die for.”
“No one will die,” he corrected. “I already told you, Thomas said that baking would be easier than killing.”
“Of course. Lana, you have to try this.” Her mother nudged the tray toward Sting. “Pass her one, will you?”
He did, and Lana wondered how much of his willingness to stay near her was just taking orders from an older woman, as he’d always done with the Tritonesse. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze as he wordlessly held out the cup and spoon, so tiny in his palm.
“Thank you,” she muttered, then added, “I’m sure it’s amazing,” while staring at his Olympic swimmer’s pecs and abs, exactingly detailed by the pale threads outlining his muscles.
Those pecs and abs were amazing; she could swear to it because she’d seen them bare. She’d actually touched them, licked them, as if even chocolate could make her forget last night.