Riding The Edge - Elise Faber Page 0,55

to Laila for that one—the person on the other side would be turning gray.

The knob rotated, and the wooden panel opened.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed that it wasn’t Dan.

“Oh,” Laila grumbled. “Don’t look like that. Dan and Ryker are coming and bringing pizzas.”

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s been a fucked-up couple of weeks. We’re hanging out. We’re eating pizza”—she pointed a finger at me—“and we’re going to enjoy spending time as a team.”

Another knock at the door before I could say anything.

Olive poked her head in, carrying a plate of what looked like brownies. She glanced at me working and frowned. “You’re supposed to be resting. You won’t get any treats if you’re not resting.”

I nodded to my foot, encased in the cast and elevated on a spare chair Dan had brought to my room for just this purpose. “I’m resting.”

“I hope so,” she said, pulling a bag out of her jacket pocket. “Otherwise, no cinnamon rolls for you.”

She wafted the bag under my nose and immediately my stomach rumbled.

“Freshly baked?” I asked, able to feel the heat from the bag.

“Yup.” A beat. “So, you working?”

I flicked a finger, made the laptop’s screen go black. “Nope.”

She handed over the bag.

“How’d you know?” I asked, opening the top and scooping out a fingerful of frosting.

“About your cinnamon roll addiction?” Olive shrugged when I nodded. “Same way I know you don’t like chocolate and that for some inane reason, Ryker doesn’t drink coffee—”

“Can’t mess up this perfect temple,” Ryker said as he pushed through the door, pizza box in hand.

“Says the man carrying a pizza with at least five types of meat on it,” Dan said dryly. His eyes met mine, and I felt my heart pick up its pace. He’d slept in my bed every night for the last week. He’d helped me to the bathroom, washed my hair over the sink. He’d brought me coffee—because I sure as shit drank it—and he’d . . . been there, even when I’d been cranky.

And I had to face it; I’d been cranky a lot.

I wasn’t used to not being busy.

Even between missions I was always training—either hand-to-hand combat training or working out in the gym or practicing at the range or even just prepping for the next mission. So to have had a week off, and five to seven more in my future, I was going a little stir crazy.

And maybe part of me was still half-expecting that Dan would get tired of my bullshit and back off, if he saw how much of a bitch I could be.

Instead, he just grinned.

Which usually resulted in me threatening to use Luna 2.0 on him.

And that resulted in him kissing me until I forgot to be grumpy.

I couldn’t lie and say it didn’t work.

Now, he and Ryker set the pizzas down, shoved my laptop onto a shelf, and moved me so they could drag the table to the foot of the bed.

“Hi,” Dan murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck as he deposited me near the headboard. Olive shoved a pillow under my cast, and Laila set a plate of pizza in my lap with a wink.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” she whispered.

“No comments allowed from the team leader married to her underling,” I muttered.

“Comments withheld.” A beat. “But I’m happy to see you . . . well, happy.”

“Exactly,” Olive said, bouncing onto the bed next to me. “I don’t care who you’re doing the nasty with”—she arrowed a glance at Dan—“and that’s a metaphorical nasty, since she’s not cleared for bedroom activities yet.” That glare swiveled to me. “Well, technically you’re not cleared for any activities yet.”

“How about sniper practice?” I asked innocently.

“So much sass,” she grumbled. “You always used to be so quiet and following my orders. You were my best patient.”

“I was just your sneakiest,” I told her. “Unlike those two, who complain every time and make it obvious.”

“Hey!” Ryker said.

“Hey!” Olive said.

“Cat’s out of the bag,” Laila said. “You would have done better to hold that one to your chest.”

I picked up a slice of pizza. “I just spent two days getting shot and stabbed and having bones broken. I killed my father—which I should probably feel guilty about, but I don’t, so you tell me what kind of person that makes me—and then I confronted being back in a cell where I spent the better part of two years, one that gave me nightmares up until all the shooting