Page 73

Some sports network is playing on the massive television across from us, recapping preseason games while Bishop half-watches and half-eats enough food to sustain a small village.

A player takes a shot that gets blocked. Bishop immediately shakes his head. “Should’ve passed.”

I look at the screen. Then at him. “He can’t hear you.”

He’s so much like my dad and Beckett. Which makes sense; they spent enough time together.

“He should’ve passed.”

“Maybe he wanted to be the hero.”

“Then he should’ve gotten the puck through.”

I smile and take another bite. Of course, that’s his answer.

Darcy is curled up on the other end of the sectional, pretending he isn’t interested in us. Or the pizza. But I see the way his nose twitches when he thinks I’m not looking.

“Don’t even think about it,” I tell him.

Bishop glances over. “Me or the cat?”

“Depends. Were you planning on licking the pizza?”

“Not until you leave the room.” He deadpans, then his grin gives him away.

“Good to know I’m living with two animals,” I say before thinking and tuck one leg beneath me as I settle deeper into the couch.

This is nice. Dangerously nice. And now, thanks to my joke, nice and awkward.

Bishop snags another cheese stick. “So.”

“So?”

“What’d you think?”

“About?”

He gives me a look, but I know exactly what he’s asking. “The apartment?”

“Unless you’ve toured another roach-infested crime scene since we got back.”

I toss my napkin at him. He catches it and tosses it back. “I think you already know the answer.”

His mouth curves, but to his credit, he doesn’t say I told you so, which is almost worse.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.” He pops the rest of the cheese stick into his mouth.

“You’re thinking it.”

“You a mind reader now, Baby Becks?” he mumbles around a mouthful of cheese.

I wish.

“Your face is smug.”

“My face is innocent.”