Page 48 of Shark’s Edge

Correction. His church-sized palace.

His sprawling, lonely castle.

And why was that still such a surprise? Especially now?

“Abbi.”

“Whaaa?”

Holy crap. I’d been deep into the recall this time—but wasn’t amazed or sorry about it. I had just returned to the moments after Viktor Blake’s call. At least I hadn’t been basking in every sizzling, tingling memory of what had happened before that . . .

“Okay.” Rio chuckled. “That really did just fly in one ear and out the other, didn’t it?”

“Just lots on my mind,” I mumbled. “We’ve got all the last-minute details for Blake’s order to double-check, and— Crap.” I smacked my forehead with one hand and snapped my fingers with the other. “I just remembered. He asked for the cold buckwheat noodle salad instead of the rainbow macaroni. That means we’ll have to boil the noodles and then—”

“You mean boil them . . . like this?” With the grace of a game show hostess, she swooped an upturned palm over the pair of pots on the stove’s back burners. Then with her other hand, she dumped a pile of chopped tomatoes into a bowl of diced feta, asparagus, and scallions.

“I bow in worship.” I dipped my head low. “You are officially crowned the Queen of Multitasking.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can kiss my ring later.” She grabbed a slotted spoon and stirred everything in the bowl. “Especially because it frees you up now to finally giving me some answers, woman. Oh wait.” She flicked the spoon up as if brandishing a sword. “I just figured it out!”

“Should I be scared?” I teased, hoping like hell she hadn’t really.

She notched her chin higher, holding me hostage with her perceptive gaze. “Oh, yeah.” She added a solid nod. “And now I know I’m right too.”

I avoided squirming under her scrutiny. Barely. “You willing to put money on that?”

“Are you?”

She wasn’t wavering. And my clamoring stomach knew it. Still, I kept up the outward appearance of confidence with my brazen invitation. “Go for it, Sherlock. Let’s hear your theory.”

“Sebastian. Shark.”

Her deduction didn’t exactly blindside me. I was just less prepared than I’d expected to be—which made me mad. But if I could keep the resulting sting contained behind my eyes . . .

“That’s a name, not a theory.” Why did it sound like I was conducting my side of this conversation through clenched teeth?

“You saw him. Not in his office or as part of the lunch route. You saw him last night, didn’t you?”

I plunged my stare back down, focusing on the stack of avocadoes that needed to be sliced, crisped, and placed on the bread along with Rio’s salsa. “H-How . . . did you know?”

“Because if you’d been out with anyone else, you wouldn’t be hiding it from me.” Her shoulders dropped as she voiced her theory. The sadness in her tone boomeranged off the walls in the otherwise quiet kitchen.

I worked harder at finding a place to fix my stare. “So this is guilt by omission, then?” And now why the hell did I sound so defensive?

“You’re not guilty of anything, Abs. Except maybe believing that wolf could change into a decent housedog.”

I felt my face twist in aggravation. “What makes you think I want a dog?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Okay. Whatever you thought you’d be getting from the man, then. The changes you thought you’d be seeing in him, just bec—”

“What makes you think I expect him to change? Or want him to?”

“I’ve been around the block a few times, Abbi. It’s a common pipe dream we all share. We, as women, I mean. We meet a guy, maybe he’s a little rough around the edges, he’s good but maybe not great, you know? But we think, ‘I can change him.’ Or the better one or worse one”—she huffed a derisive laugh—“depending how far gone you are, ‘For me, he’ll change.’”

“You’re way off base on this, Rio. It’s not like that. Not at all like that.” But before I could continue, she went on as if I hadn’t uttered a word.

“And I know what I witnessed at the park on Sunday. An hour of you and Sebastian Shark trying to hit vital organs with your glares until he dragged you behind the concessions stand. Then when you both returned wearing Revlon’s Fatal Apple across your lips . . . ”