Page 150 of Jonesing for a Spy

I don’t like that at work. I buck it from my parents. I hate it from my brothers. I loathe feeling small and questioned.

But Strider doesn’t make me feel small. Quite the opposite, he empowers me.

63

badges of honor

Mirren

I’m so tired by the time we get home that Strider has to carry me up the stairs. Score one for a chivalrous man and a bum knee.

I’d love to blame him. Blame that extra stair we never negotiated, but my body is recovering. Injury will do it. Surgery will do it. Hell, surgery—if history is anything to go by—will take it out of me for months. And not just my stupid knee. My body is good about healing, but two major surgeries in under two years?

Stupid wanna-be incels.

“You’re all up in your head. What are you thinking about?” Strider asks as he sets me on my feet in our bedroom.

“Ricky Germaine.”

His chin jerks back. “That was the last thing I expected.”

“My stupid knee. Another surgery. My body. A busted op. Dumb terrorist wannabes. Totally logical train of thought.” I find the edge of the bed and plop down.

“If you say so. Do you have enough energy to shower?”

“Enough to stand there if you do all the work. Not enough to hold myself up if you try to make me come.”

“So an effective shower not a good shower?” he asks. “I get it. Be right back.” He returns, waving a roll of plastic wrap like a baton in a foot race. “Pants off, Jones.”

I stare at him in challenge.

“My pleasure.” Tossing the box on the bed, he kneels before me for the second time today. This time he unlaces my shoes and pulls them off, socks too, followed by my pants.

The plastic wrap application is precise, gentle, and covers more than necessary. But it removes any doubt I could have that my wound won’t be protected.

“Is that enough?” he asks from his position below me.

“You’re perfect.”

He offers an indulgent smile and stands, offering me two hands.

When I’m on my feet, he lifts the sweatshirt over my head, followed by my tee. My panties and bra are next. I’m left completely naked while he’s dressed down to his shoes.

“You’re perfect,” he says, scanning my body. Brushing a thumb over my cheek, he adds, “Though the bruises make me want to bring that guy back from the dead just to kill him.”

“I love you too.”

He starts the shower and comes back for me, setting me in front of the mirror to run a brush through my hair. I’m not unable but I’m loving the care and nurture he’s displaying. Glancing up, I gasp. My face is mottle yellows and greens and scabs dot my cheeks.

“You let me FaceTime your sister like this?”

“You, Mirren Jones, are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. Sick, healthy, clean, a little stinky”—he sniffs and makes a face. “When you’re old, wrinkly, and gray, you will still be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

I mutter something about bifocals under my breath but let him guide me to the shower.

He quickly undresses and steps in behind me, making quick work of shampooing my hair as I lean into his chest.

Firm fingers press into my scalp, and I bite back a moan. Even though I want more, I don’t have the strength or energy for it.