Page 57 of The Stranger

He’s been quiet since we left the restaurant, and although he hasn’t spoken, I can tell by his pinched eyebrows he’s in one of those extra growly moods. Spending almost every woken moment around someone will soon reveal all their tells.

Does he recognise mine?

Can he sense that something has shifted in me?

If he does, he’s not letting on. Or is he trying to sparemy feelings by not acknowledging what he probably perceives as some childish crush?

He’s focusing on the numbers as we climb like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. I use his distraction to observe him as he leans against the far wall with his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. His legs are casually crossed at the ankles, and somewhere during the journey home he’s removed his tie and undone the first few buttons of his dress shirt. Despite thedon’t fuck with mevibe he’s now giving off, it’s a look that suits him well. There is something about a pissed-off Spencer Prescott that floats my boat.

“Have I said or done something to upset you?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine for a beat before he grumbles a single syllable, “No.”

“Okay then,” I murmur under my breath.Someone will be getting a jumbo-sized coffee in the morning.

He returns to his brooding, and when we reach the top level, he simply extends his arm without making eye contact, indicating for me to exit first.

It seems like he’s purposely hanging back, so I don’t bother waiting. The click of my high heels against the marble echoes through the foyer as I march towards the front doors.

I have my own key to his apartment now, so I fish it out of my bag to unlock it. I’m halfway across the main room, on my way to my bedroom, when I hear him call my name.

“Delilah.”

Pausing, I glance over my shoulder. “What?”

I’m half expecting an apology for his curtness just now, but instead, he asks, “Have you received any of your results yet?”

“I don’t know. I checked this morning, but there was nothing there.”

My hands are a little shaky as I dig into my bag to retrieve my phone. I’ve been so preoccupied with a certain grumpy boss-slash-roommate that I haven’t given my current predicament a second thought.

I hold the screen up in front of me to activate the face recognition before clicking on the app the clinic got me to download. They said all the results and future correspondence would be sent via there.

Bile rises to the back of my throat as I use the tip of my finger to scroll down the page. I hate he chose this very moment to bring this up. I was hoping to have a warm shower, possibly relieve some pent-up tension in my nether regions, and fall into a blissful post-orgasmic slumber.

There is no chance of that now. His question is the equivalent of being doused in a bucket of ice-cold water.

I’m holding my breath as my eyes scan over the screen. Common sense tells me that a sexually transmitted disease is not the end of the world—most can be treated—but I feel like my entire future is riding on this outcome.

My legs threaten to give way from underneath me when I see there’s an update. I crouch down into a squat, resting my backside on my calves as my eyes frantically read over the results.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative …

My eyes cloud over, as the outcome is the same for them all. I know I’m not technically out of the woods yet—one test alone has to be cultured, and can take up totwenty-eight days—but the sheer volume of relief I feel is instant.

The phone drops from my hand as I cover my face and begin to cry. Through my breakdown, I hear Spencer bark, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

A few seconds later, I’m being gathered into his arms and lifted off the ground. He carries me across the room. I have no idea where he’s taking me, but I’m too stunned to ask. My confusion is answered a few seconds later when he takes a seat on the couch and deposits me on his lap.

I’m. On. His. Lap.

“What are you doing?” I squeak.