On the Run (Whispering Key #2) - May Archer Page 0,24

a shaky breath and fought the urge to visualize him handling my stones.

“No,” I lied. “No, of course not. Don’t be silly. It’s fine. You’re fine. The whole thing is just… fine.”

“Fine.” Toby’s brow creased. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes. Yes! Great.” I felt my cheeks flush, which was apparently their default state when Toby was around. If he didn’t leave soon, I’d probably have a stroke. Then a horrible thought occurred to me. “Why do you ask? Did you sleep well? Did anything… disturb you?” Like me, lying on you like you were my personal mattress topper, please say no?

“What?” Toby’s face went carefully blank in a guilty-ish sort of way. “No. I slept perfectly! Wonderfully. Deeply. Platonically.” He cleared his throat. “Definitely at no time did I wake up to find I’d crossed the middle of the bed and curled around your half-naked person like you were the only source of heat in a cold and unforgiving universe, with my naked dick lying on your thigh like a lizard sunning itself on a rock, so you can get that thought right out of your head, mister.”

“Oh.” I blinked at the visual and squirmed slightly on my seat as my own naked dick pressed against my shorts. I debated the benefit of more push-ups. “Okay. Good.”

“Because if I had done such a thing, which I obviously didn’t, I’d have scurried back to my own side of the bed immediately. Immediately.”

“Right,” I choked out. “Same.”

“Good. Great. So that settles that.” Toby turned around and busied himself pouring water into mugs while the microwave continued to hum. “But, I’m glad you slept well, because I did want to talk to you about—”

Oh, shit. Was this the part where he called me on the cuddling?

Before he could finish his sentence—and honestly, that was probably for the best—a sound like machine-gun fire emitted from the microwave.

Toby screamed, spun, and ducked. “Oh my God! The microwave is shooting at us!”

I ran into the kitchen and pulled open the microwave door. Inside, a burrito-shaped log sat on a decorative plate, covered by a scorched paper towel. I grabbed the plate gingerly and set it on the counter.

“That appliance attacked us in cold blood!” Toby exclaimed, so close I could feel his breath against my damp shoulder blade and smell his spicy, clean cologne. “It murdered that vegan burrito! Unacceptable.”

“A murder microwave to match the murder cat?” I snorted. “Why is it always murder with you?”

“Excuse you—”

“How long did you put it on for?”

“Two minutes! As instructed.”

“Toby, I’ve been in here way longer than two minutes.”

His mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Are you… are you insinuating that I cannot program a microwave for two minutes? Because… because that’s crazy talk. I have a job. I have a-a-a degree. I am a very capable person!”

I could feel emotions streaming off him—annoyance, injured pride, embarrassment, curious vulnerability—and it was the last one that jabbed me in the solar plexus. I remembered something I’d been blocking out all morning—Toby stretching his arm across the Great Wall of Blankets to link pinkies with me. And I realized, with that same instinct that had made me buy the variscite years ago and told me never to settle, that Toby really hated feeling vulnerable.

He was a lot like Marjorie that way.

“No,” I said solemnly. “I’d never think such a thing. I’m saying that clearly this microwave has been plotting its attack for more than two minutes. It was deliberate. And cold-blooded.”

Toby jabbed the burrito lump angrily with his finger. “Much like this burrito, which is smoking but somehow still frozen inside.”

“Even worse.” I took the plate to the trash and dumped the burrito in. “This burrito was innocent. A whatjamacallit? Casualty of war.”

“And there goes your home-cooked breakfast,” he sighed.

“You didn’t need to make me breakfast anyway.”

“I was attempting to pay you back for rescuing me last night. I’ll have you know, I’m a fucking amazing cook. I make a steak au poivre that is to die for. I make a cheese-and-bacon soufflé that has made men drop to their knees.”

Yet another helpful visual. “I believe you,” I croaked. “But did I mention I’m vegetarian?”

Toby’s eyes shot to mine, and his full lips twitched in a smile that made me take a step back.

“So, what time’s your flight?” I moved around the counter and slid back onto the stool, just as Toby set a steaming mug of water and a few boxes of tea in front of me. “I’m assuming you’re