Page 48 of Executing Malice

“My ribbon,” I mumble stupidly, because that’s the concern right now it seems.

“Mine now.”

I open my mouth to tell him I want it back when he goes rigid against me. His head snaps up in the direction of the windows.

“Shit.”

I spin to see what has his attention and expel my own curse.

Reed.

Even from the back, his uniform is unmistakable in the afternoon sun. The light glints off his neatly trimmed strands, tinting the brown to the color of wet sand with a hint of gold.

He’s been sidetracked by Opal and Ezra Bingley. It must be serious; Reed is in hisSupermanpose. That usually means business.

But I have my own problems.

Without thinking it through, I grab my biker and shove him in the direction of the kiosk. I’m not paying too much attention while keeping an eye on my brother’s back. But I get biker-man under the desk just as Reed finishes with several official bobs of his head.

“Ow!” biker man mutters when the back of his helmet thumps against the edge of my desk as he tries to crawl in backwards.

“Shut it and get under there!” I snap.

“You keep bossing me around like this and I might get a boner.”

I shouldn’t laugh, but goddamn it.

“Keep quiet,” I grumble, trying to smother my grin.

“Yes ma’am.”

I wait until he’s wedged under before dragging my chair over and dropping into it. I’m forced to draw back when hegrunts and fights to find a comfortable position in the confined space with the helmet.

“Take it off,” I hiss.

“Your fake brother is just outside. Now is not the time to get me naked.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh my God, I meant the helmet!”

He grunts again but reaches under his chin. “I already told you I would marry you. There’s no need to hide me like a dirty secret.”

“He’ll ask too many questions,” I mutter.

He pauses. “Are you ashamed of us?”

Good Lord.

“There is no us, weirdo. Now, hurry up.”

I don’t get to watch him unmask when the bell jingles and Reed strolls in.

“Hey stranger,” he says with his usual grin.

I wiggle in my chair and shift to pull myself further under the desk.

There’s no possible way for him to see the biker. The kiosk is a long stretch of counter with two stations broken by a single median in the center. There’s definitely enough room down there for a smaller person, but the man hunched at my feet isn’t small. He’s a damn mountain. Muscles on top of muscles with a chest as wide as the ocean and hard as granite. Concealing himisn’t impossible as long as he doesn’t hit the underside with his head. Or sneeze.

I pray for the best and fix my practiced smile in place as Reed ambles closer.