“Oh, okay. It’s so hard to concentrate with that man on the planet.”

“Word.”

“So, you think if you can keep a goldfish alive, you can keep a child alive?”

I took out the fish food to examine it. “Sure. You have to feed both of them, right?”

“Yes, but —”

“And you have to take care of them both, right?”

“You do, yes, but I think —”

“Then surely if I can do one, I can do the other.”

“I think you’re missing the point.”

“And you’ve kept Amber alive for thirteen years, as of last week,” I added. “How hard can it be?”

“I can’t believe I have a thirteen-year-old.”

“I can’t believe you’ve kept her alive that long,” I said. “I mean, it’s so… daily. And kids are so needy. Like, you have to feed them every week. I couldn’t even remember to water my plants every week.”

“Well,” she said, giving me her schoolteacher face, “there is one huge difference between a kid and a plant: Kids make noise when they’re hungry. Trust me when I say you will not forget.”

“Sweet.”

She snorted. “Tell me that in a year.”

4

I don’t think I get enough credit for the fact that I do all of this unmedicated.

— T-SHIRT

I was busy perusing the suicide notes and waiting for Belvedere’s water to finish its treatment when I heard a thud from Cookie’s office. Then a mousy squeak. Then a throaty moan.

“Cookie,” I said, wiggling my fingers at Belvedere to get him acquainted with our strange ways, “are you masturbating?”

“No. I got a paper cut.”

Oh. I didn’t see that coming.

“A bad one,” she added, her voice more whiny than usual.

“Sucks to be you.” It was the best I could offer. I cared on the inside. Which was exactly where it would stay.

She made a sucking sound and another squeak.

“Are you sure you’re not mastur —?”

“I had a thought,” she called out to me.

“Okay.”

“You know how you heal really fast?”

I stood and walked to the doorway that separated our offices. “Yes,” I answered, wondering where she was going with this.

She was sucking the side of her index finger. “Maybe if you lick my cut, your spit will heal me fast, too.”

“Dude,” I said, tamping down a giggle, “I’m not licking your cut.”

“Just lick me.” She held out her finger. “This is going to be tender for days.”

“I’m not licking you.” A line I rarely said aloud.

“Come on, Charley. Every time I file a document or type at the computer, it will hurt. Just lick me.”

Reyes walked in behind me, but for once Cookie was too wrapped up in her own agony to give his majestic presence her full attention. She was much more concerned about her nigh-fatal injury.

“Or at least spit on me.”

“Cook,” I said, walking to her desk, “it’s not that the thought isn’t appealing, but my spit is not going to heal your cut.”

She deflated. “How do you know until you try?”

“Mr. Farrow heals faster than I do,” I continued, teasing him with a wink. “Let him lick you.”

Her gaze landed on my affianced, hope and a spark of lust brightening the smoky depths of her blue irises.

I glanced over my shoulder at the curious smirk he was wearing. “Paper cut,” I explained.

“Ah,” he said. “Let me see.”

I could tell by the way he said it – Let me see, his voice soft, his head lowered with one brow quirked – this was going to be interesting.

He walked over to her, but she hesitated. “It’s okay. I’ll live.”

She tried to laugh it off, but he caught her hand in his, turned it this way and that, tsked when he came upon the life-threatening cut. Paper cuts hurt like the dickens. I understood her agony all too well. I also understood the spike of adrenaline that shot through her when Reyes brought her finger to his mouth. Locking his gaze with hers, he kissed the injured extremity, and Cookie visibly melted in her chair, every muscle in her body turning to mush, but Reyes didn’t stop there. He parted his lips, pressing them into her skin as he suckled her injury. Cookie’s heartbeat skyrocketed. Her nerves leapt, probably with joy, and I could feel a hot rush of desire flood her body.

I was right there with her. He had yet to release her gaze as his tongue slid along the cut, wetting it with what she believed was super-healing mojo. He placed one last kiss, a tiny peck, on the finger before releasing her hand with a soft wink.

She pulled her hand back, cradled it to her chest, and while normally I’d chuckle at her reaction, I could only stare in fascination.

I pointed to my shoulder. “I have a bruise.”

He walked over to me, peeled my shirt back, and kissed my shoulder, the heat of his mouth scalding as that simple act sent the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy.

Just as I was about to drag him into my office by his shirt collar, Uncle Bob walked in. It was probably for the best. I had yet to get it on with my affianced in my office, especially with Cookie in the next room, and now was hardly the time since, you know, Cookie was in the next room.

She snapped to attention. Her face bloomed a bright pink as she busied herself, straightening papers.