Page 78 of Her Name in Red

“Twelve now.” His expression doesn't change.

“Are you keeping track?” I lean forward, my face inches from his. “Do you have a little dossier on me, Riggsy? A cute little scrapbook with newspaper clippings and red string connecting all the dots?”

His smile is slow, predatory. “Would it turn you on if I did?”

“You're disgusting,” I say, but there's no bite to it. Something dark and thrilling coils in my stomach at his words.

“You like me disgusting.”

“I don't like you at all.”

His hand moves higher, fingers skimming the hem of my shorts. “Liar.”

I slap his hand away, but my heart isn't in it. “Do you have a point, or did you just come here to annoy me?”

“Maybe I missed you.” His eyes hold mine, and for a second, I almost believe him.

Before I can respond, his stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing growl. The tension breaks, and I can't help but laugh.

“Hungry much?” I raise an eyebrow.

He grins, unashamed. “Burned a lot of calories tonight. Some of us have actual jobs.”

“Hockey isn't a job. It's glorified ice dancing with sticks.”

“Says the girl who watched the whole game.” He stands up, stretching. “Got anything to eat that isn't expired or poisoned?”

“Check the fridge. There might be one of your nasty protein shakes left.”

As soon as he disappears into the kitchen, I grab my phone and quickly pull up my delivery app. I tap through my recent orders, selecting the Mexican place he likes and double-ordering his usual. I hit submit just as I hear the refrigerator door close.

Riggs returns, protein shake in hand, and drops back onto the couch. He cracks the top and chugs half of it in one go, his throat working as he swallows.

“God, that's vile,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is the new Snapped on tonight?”

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. Of course he'd want to watch a show about women who murder their husbands.

“What?” he asks, defensive. “It's educational.”

“For who? The victims?”

“For me.” He grins. “Gotta know what warning signs to look out for.”

I grab the remote and pull up my recordings. “Lucky for you, I recorded it.”

“You're a keeper, nightmare.”

I settle into the couch cushions as the show's dramatic intro plays. Riggs slides down next to me, his arm casually stretching across the back of the couch behind my shoulders. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Twenty bucks says she used antifreeze,” he says as the narrator describes the mysterious death of a wealthy businessman.

“Amateur move,” I scoff. “Too traceable.”

“Speaking from experience?” His eyes slide to mine, playful but searching.

“Wouldn't you know with your fancy little handy-dandy notebook?”

We fall into silence, occasionally trading theories about the murder method or commenting on the victim's obvious character flaws. Riggs' stomach growls again, louder this time, but he ignores it, too engrossed in the show to complain.