Page 108 of The Love Operation

“’Fraid I don’t have a pen, fair maiden.” His voice booms with a medieval accent.

I bat my eyelashes. “There’s one in the glove box.”

He finds it along with some napkins and hand sanitizer, which he insists on applying to the armrest where Mrs. Hubert had lain. Then he signs a brown napkin with flair and hands it to me, tipping his head.

“My night is complete,” I say, pressing the napkin to my chest like a sacred love letter. “Now get out of my car before the memory’s ruined.”

It’s the right moment to end on, light and offbeat. Contained. My mind’s swimming, and I’m anxious to find my own answers, get back on steady ground, confirm I’m not misremembering something.

Benedict’s smile fades. “We’re done?”

“I should get some rest.”

“Let me take you home. You don’t seem in any shape to drive.”

I drop my jaw. “I drive like this all the time.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“I don’t care how it makes you feel.”

He lifts a brow. “What if I really just want to meet Tad Cooper?”

My eyes light up. I love showing Tad Cooper off. “You’d love him.”

“Then let’s go.”

I narrow my eyes, saying nothing. But he reads my expression and lifts both hands in mock surrender.

“Innocent,” he says. “I promise. I’ll be on my best behavior. Your cannibal boyfriend has nothing to worry about.”

I slap his arm, and my fingers convey a message to my brain: Holy cerebellum! That biceps is a covert weapon.

He shouldn’t come to my house. I originally wanted to see Benedict so we could talk about the past, so I could iron out my life and give my best to Isaac.

That’s not what this is. We’re just hanging out. And that feels like the wrong choice.

But tonight, I don’t feel like the version of myself who makes all the right choices. I feel like someone who’s tired, fed, and savoring a moment of lightness in the middle of all the heavy.

And maybe I don’t fully trust myself, but I trust Benedict. He said it would be innocent. And I believe him.

We trade places, and he starts the engine.

Chapter 27

Cold Shower Stat

We sit on my couch in the lamp-lit living room, Tad Cooper nestled in Benedict’s hand like he belongs there.

“I love him,” Benedict says.

“There’s so much to love.”

“It’s like he understands the plight of the common man.”

“I know. He’s special.”

I watch Tad Cooper shift shades slightly—contentment. Benedict’s capable fingers move over his scales with the kind of reverence usually reserved for baby bunnies or vein harvesting.