Page 50

"Right. Tea. Tiny sandwiches. Very proper." But her voice was breathless, affected. Good. Let her suffer too.

She smoothed down her dress with hands that trembled slightly, and I felt like I'd won something. A small victory in this war of wills we were waging.

"Shall we?" I offered my arm like a gentleman, like I hadn't just been imagining bending her over my bike.

"So formal," she teased, but took it anyway, fingers curling around my bicep. "Lead the way, Soldier Boy."

ThedoortoRosewood'sTea Shop stood all of five-foot-eight, painted pristine white with frosted glass panels etched with roses. I had to duck to enter, and the little bell above the door announced my arrival like a warning siren. Every delicate head in the place turned.

Doilies. Everywhere. On tables, chairs, under potted plants that looked like they required daily affirmations to survive. The air smelled old lady perfume, with classical music tinkling from speakers hidden behind arrangements of silk flowers. Tiny tables with tinier chairs filled the space, occupied by women who looked like they'd been born clutching pearl necklaces.

I'd infiltrated Taliban strongholds that felt more welcoming.

"Oh my," one elderly woman whispered to her companion, loud enough for the whole place to hear. "They're allowing anyone in these days."

Lena's hand tightened on my arm, and I could feel her fighting laughter. She pressed closer, playing up our couple status with a brilliant smile that dared anyone to comment further.

"Table for two?" The hostess materialized—another grandmother type with silver hair in a bun so tight it looked painful. She eyed me like I might steal the good china or track motor oil on her pristine floors. Her gaze lingered on my tattoos, visible where I'd rolled up my sleeves, and her mouth pursed like she'd sucked a lemon.

"Yes, please!" Lena chirped, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Somewhere private if you have it. My boyfriend's shy."

Boyfriend. The word hit unexpectedly hard, even though I knew it was cover. Her boyfriend. Hers. The hostess's expression suggested she'd rather seat us in the dumpster out back, but hospitality won out.

"This way."

The booth she showed us to had clearly been designed for people half my size. Maybe children. Very small children.

"This is perfect, thank you!" Lena slid in easily, patting the space across from her. "Come on, baby. Don't be scared."

The hostess huffed and click-clacked away on sensible heels, leaving me to figure out how to fold six-foot-two of muscle into a space meant for garden gnomes. I tried sliding in normally—knees hit the table, sending the china rattling. Tried angling sideways—shoulders too broad for the high-backed booth.

"Having trouble there, Godzilla?" Lena had her phone out, absolutely recording this humiliation for posterity.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, finally managing to wedge myself in by sitting at an angle, one leg in the aisle. The table pressed against my ribs, and every movement threatened to topple something expensive.

"You look like you're at a tea party in Wonderland," she giggled, snapping photos. "All you need is a tiny hat."

"Blackmail material?"

"Memories," she corrected, but her grin was pure mischief. "Besides, you look hot when you're uncomfortable. All grumbly and trying not to break things. Very controlled. Makes me wonder what it would take to make you lose that control."

"Lena." Warning in my voice that she cheerfully ignored.

"What? I'm just saying. Big dangerous man, all contained and careful. It's doing things to me."

Christ. In public, surrounded by disapproving grandmothers, and she was still finding ways to test my limits.

Our waitress appeared. Another older woman, this one with cat-eye glasses and a mouth permanently fixed in disapproval.

"What can I get you fine folks?" The question was directed entirely at Lena, as if I might not be capable of speech.

"We'll have the full afternoon tea service, please," Lena said brightly. "With all the fixings. Extra clotted cream, if you have it."

The waitress's pencil scratched disapprovingly. "And to drink?"

"Earl Grey for me. Tyson?"

Every instinct screamed for coffee. Black. Strong enough to strip paint. But Lena's eyes were dancing with challenge, and I'd be damned if I let a bunch of judgmental grandmothers see me flinch.