Chapter 11
INDY
“What are you making in here?”
Bea startles, dropping her rolling pin and letting out a tiny yip of surprise.
“Shit, sorry,” I blurt as I race over to the counter and snatch the rolling pin just as it rolls off the edge. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She takes a steadying breath before looking at the wooden rolling pin held securely in my prosthetic hand. The fear in her eyes shifts quickly to admiration. “Indy. You caught that so fast.”
My instinctive reaction whenever someone mentions my prosthetic is to change the subject as quickly as possible.
But it’s different with Bea. Maybe it’s partly because she knows how it works and was there while I learned how to use it.
Maybe it’s because she’s never looked at me like I was less.
Maybe it’s because—though belatedly—I know she understands how it feels to have to rely on technology to do things other people take for granted.
But as she smiles at me, pride shining in her eyes, it’s hard to feel self-conscious about it.
So I set the rolling pin back on the counter and say, “I’ve practiced a lot. Even after our sessions ended, I kept up the exercises every day. And with the mods Yara made, the reaction time is even better than before.”
Moving beside her, I rest my flesh and blood hand on her back. “I’m sorry I startled you, though. I should have thought.”
“It’s okay.” Bea leans against me, her shoulder bumping my arm.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m a little jumpy, still, I guess.
” Picking up the rolling pin again, she starts working the dough laid out on the counter in long, even strokes.
“I can’t believe Yara did all that on her own.
It takes companies years to produce even small upgrades, let alone the ones she created. ”
Settling in beside her, I watch Bea’s rhythmic movements, appreciating the strength in her slender arms and delicate hands.
“Yara’s a genius when it comes to robotics.
She was actually accepted to MIT, Carnegie Mellon, and USC to study it.
But she decided to enlist instead. So she just played around with inventions while she was serving; for fun and to keep her skills up. ”
“You weren’t on the same team, were you?”
“No. But she was stationed at Fort Campbell, like the rest of us. So I knew her pretty well.”
Bea sets the rolling pin to the side and starts cutting the dough into squares. “When did she leave—I mean, separate from the Army? That’s the right term, isn’t it?”
“Technically, yes. But people might say they left, or they didn’t renew their contract. Or if they’re like me, no longer fit to serve, they were medically retired.”
And even though it’s been years since then, the words still sting.
“Well.” She turns to me. Her eyes are soft with affection. “I think you’re more than fit to serve. And I’d rather have you at my six than anyone else.”
My heart does that crazy flipping thing again.
And even though we’re standing in the middle of Yara’s kitchen, where someone could walk in at any minute, it’s a struggle not to pull Bea into my arms and kiss her.
Honestly, I wouldn’t care if Ace or Tyler saw us.
And Yara’s still at work for another hour, though I doubt she’d care, either.
But Bea might be embarrassed, and I don’t want that for her.
Plus, she’s been through some shit over the last twenty-four hours, what with that fucker using her implants to threaten her, the worry over her parents—who are safe and sound with Cole and his teammates in Sleepy Hollow—and making this unplanned trip north to Seattle in the middle of the night.
“When did Yara separate from the Army, then?” Bea asks again. “Or is that private?”
I think for a moment. “Almost two years now. She went through some pretty bad shit the last few months she was in. So she chose not to renew her contract.”
“And now she works in robotics.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure what she actually does, though.”
Bea gives my prosthetic another admiring look. Then she places her hand over it, lining up her fingers with mine.
I feel that tug in my chest again.
“She could do what she did for you. I bet there are a lot of people who’d want it.” Bea glances at the kitchen doorway before adding, “Did Yara work on Tyler’s prosthetic, too?”
It’s easier for Tyler to hide his prosthetic leg, since he often wears pants when he’s out in public. But around HQ, he wears shorts, so Bea saw his leg one of the first days she was there. And being Bea, she didn’t blink an eye at it.
“She didn’t,” I reply. “At least not that I know of.”
“Oh.” Her brow wrinkles in thought. “Well. It was really nice of Yara to let us—me—stay here. Especially when the house isn’t very big.”
Not very big is a generous way of describing it.
Yara’s little cottage has two small bedrooms, plus a little alcove she uses as an office.
Since we weren’t about to kick Yara out of her own bedroom, and we wanted Bea to have her own space, I’m bunking on an air mattress in the office, along with Webb, while Tyler slept on the living room couch last night.
But the house is safe, which is the most important part.
Especially now that we’ve added even more security to the system Yara already installed.
So if anyone even breathes outside a window or tries to pick a lock, we’ll know immediately.
And with four former Special Forces operators staying here, any intruder will receive a very unpleasant welcome.
“What time do you think I should have dinner ready?” Bea asks. Now that the dough is all cut, she’s started dropping spoonfuls of some sort of herb and cheese mixture in the center of each of them. “I know Tyler’s working on his computer in the office. But what about Ace and Yara?”
“Ace is surveilling the neighborhood. Getting the lay of the land, so to speak.” We checked the area immediately around us first thing this morning, but Ace went back out under the guise of a casual jogger to get a better look. “And Yara said she’d be back around five. So we’ve—”
Wait. When should Bea have dinner ready?
“Bea.” I catch her hand and take the spoon from her.
“You don’t need to cook for us. I didn’t think—” But a quick glance around the kitchen makes it obvious.
A pot filled with water sits on a burner, ready to be heated.
Spinach and cloves of garlic are set on a cutting board nearby, with a cutting knife unsheathed beside them.
When I first walked into the kitchen, all I noticed was the enormous sheet of dough she was working with. And I thought she might be working through her nervous energy by baking. But to prepare dinner for all of us? When she’s barely a week out from her concussion?
“It makes me feel better,” Bea replies. She pulls her hand away from mine and begins spooning the cheese mixture onto the dough again. “Cooking relaxes me. And it’s the least I can do after everything you guys are doing for me.”
The idea that she thinks she owes us anything—owes me anything—doesn’t sit right with me.
“You don’t owe us for this. You don’t owe me. I made the choice to go get you, Bea. If anything, I owe you for not panicking and turning me in.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Did you think I would? Turn you in?”
“I didn’t think so. But I knew it was a possibility, given what I did. Just because I thought it was the right thing to do…”
Bea stares at me. Her brows pull into a V, with tiny lines forming between them. “I was confused at first. And yes, I was kind of… pissed at you. But I would never have turned you in. Never. For a second, I considered leaving and taking my chances on my own—”
“Please don’t do that.” I can’t even let myself think about how badly that could turn out.
Bea all alone, hiding out in shady motels, trying to stay one step ahead of the police and the killer who framed her…
“Please. If you’re unhappy here, if you want to do something different, I’ll figure it out. But don’t just leave.”
“I won’t, Indy. I said I thought about it. But I’m not stupid. I know how dangerous that could be.” With the last spoonful of cheese mixture deposited, Bea starts folding the dough over into tiny triangles and pinching the edges to seal them.
She falls silent for a few seconds, concentrating on the little dough triangles. Then she looks back up at me. “I’m not leaving. And…” Her cheeks turn pink. “I don’t want to leave you. Is that silly of me to say?”
“No. It’s not silly.” Following her lead, I attempt to make a dough and cheese pocket on my own. But it’s not easy, like she makes it appear. My fingers are too clumsy. I keep pinching the dough too hard.
Bea places her hands over mine. “Like this.” As she guides me through it, her hair brushes my chin, smelling softly of vanilla.
I can’t tear my eyes from the sight of our hands linked together.
My throat goes thick.
When I lost my hand, I never thought a woman would want me to touch her again.
And later, once the shock of it had faded, I was too insecure to even try.
I couldn’t stand the thought of it—touching a woman with my prosthetic and seeing the revulsion in her eyes. Or even worse, pity.
But with Bea, it’s not like that at all.
Once we finish the little dough pockets—or whatever official name the recipe calls them—Bea lifts the parchment paper up and slides it carefully onto a baking tray. She carries it over to the oven and puts the tray inside it, then closes the door and sets the timer.
When she turns around, I ask, “How long do they need to cook for?”
“The Tiropitakia?”
“Tiro-what?”
She grins. “Tiropitakia. They’re Greek cheese pies. My grandmother used to make them, and I learned the recipe from her.”
“Oh.” I join Bea at the sink as she rinses her hands. Once she’s done, I rinse mine off and pat them dry with the towel she hands me. “When my mother cooked, it was more all-American type stuff. Meatloaf, roasts, burgers and hot dogs…”
“Are you close to her? Your mom?”