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CHAPTER TEN
Bishop sucked in his cheeks, semi–self-conscious, no matter how she’d meant it. He’d already mentally given her permission to throw cheap shots and be a jerk. He’d earned it, one of the reasons he would put up with it. She wouldn’t be in this situation if he hadn’t left her. They’d likely both have very different lives. But he didn’t see the angle of her backhanded compliment and didn’t like the way it settled in his chest.
He ran a hand into hisstupidhair, needing to bring the conversation back to theexperttalk. “Touché. But Iammore versed with the criminal sect than you. I know the experts. So we play by my rules until no rules are needed.”
Ella didn’t budge.
Stifling the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Bishop moved to the edge of her couch, lifted her feet off, and dropped them. “Sit up a sec.”
“Those were my feet,” she said, pointing out the obvious.
“Give me a break.” But point made. That was probably far too personal a touch than he should’ve made. But he was drawn to do it again, damn it.
“I would rather lie here with Furry Baby and Little Kitty.”
He patted her skirt-covered knees that half hung off the couch then pulled his hand back. “What aren’t you telling me?”
She shrugged. Demanding that she spit it out wouldn’t work, and his temples throbbed. Bishop rubbed his forehead, and the instant scent of lavender and mint met his nose. He brought his hands closer and inhaled. They’d scent-stained his hands but now offered somewhat of a calming effect or, at the very least, a distracting one.
He wasn’t a shrink and didn’t know the first thing about getting Crazy to talk. But he knew that she had to say it. Whateveritwas. “Do you want a beer, babe?”
“Ha!” Ella dropped her elbow over her face as her dog heard something imaginary and took off, the kitten chasing after it. “I could probably use one.”
“You’re wound a little tight. I’d say you could use a six-pack.”
“I’d die if I drank a six-pack. Then you’d get fired.”
“No six-pack for the lady.” He patted her knee again, drawn to touching her. The soft skirt smoothed against his palm, and he let his hand rest.
Across the room, her kitten rolled over itself and a little toy, and her dog watched him. Ella hadn’t removed her arm, which acted as a blindfold, and the whole scene was like a circus. Maybe he was the one who really needed the beer. He stood and walked toward the kitchen attached to her living room.
Ella hummed. “You’re about to be very disappointed.”
He pulled the obviously energy-efficient fridge open, and—No. Shit.Not only was there a lack of beer, there was also a lack of what he would callfood.“I’m all for healthy eating and all, but…”
“I could use a trip to the grocery store. And I eat out.”
That surprised him. He eyeballed the lack of edible options and unrecognizable labels. “Probably not where I do.”
The fridge wasn’t just filled with organic packages and the expected tofu. There was actually grass in her refrigerator. Ella had a patch of live, growinggrasson the top shelf. Some parts were snipped down as though she’d… eaten it?
Bishop was a gym rat. It wasn’t a moniker he owned, but he wasn’t stupid. He clocked enough hours at enough gyms, lifted enough weights, worked out enough, traveled in enough circles, and ate healthy enough that he knew what wheatgrass was. But never in his life had he known someone who actually owned what he assumed was wheatgrass and actually cultivated it in their fridge.
She laughed. “Nope. Probably not where I shop.”
“And you do not have beer.”
“We can both agree that’s a tragedy.”
“Ella…?”
“Hmm?”
“There’s grass in your fridge.”
“High-quality grass.”
All right, then. Bishop shut the fridge and went to her cabinets, inspecting them more out of curiosity than anything else. Everything had a place, and it was labeled. The Container Store could show up that second and do a photo shoot. No prep time or need to bring a label maker. Eco-Ella had them beat to the punch. Everything was organized, labeled, and…hell.