Page 55

Cyclone

T he kettle whistled.

Jude didn’t move.

She was curled up on the couch in my hoodie and leggings, a dog-eared paperback in her lap, and her feet tucked under a quilt she claimed she didn’t need but liked to have her feet warm.

I crossed the room with two mugs and handed her the one with the chipped rim—the one she always reached for.

“Green tea?” she asked, eyeing me over the edge of the mug.

“Calm blend,” I said. “River’s orders.”

She snorted. “Tell him I survived CIA black sites, I can handle a little caffeine.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s making spaghetti and bossing Sean around like it’s boot camp.”

She grinned.

Grinned.

God, I’d missed that.

She curled her legs tighter beneath her and leaned against my side as I sat down beside her.

“You ever think it would feel like this?” she asked after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Safe. Simple. Ours. ”

I looked down at her, at the way her lashes brushed her cheek, at the little crease between her eyebrows that only showed up when she was lost in thought.

And I told her the truth.

“No. But now that I have it, I’m never letting go.”