“Anything but pink.” I wrench open the door and barely resist one last look at Silva.
“You don’t want to weigh in on frosting?” “Oh, wait,” Ever calls, elbowing Charlie, who’s still watching me with obnoxious fascination. I like even more that I’m the one who made her that way, even at the cost of being wrong. A little satisfied smile plays around the edges of her mouth, sending the dumb-ass organ in my chest traveling in a ricochet pattern. The girls start cheering, Charlie’s eyebrows shoot sky high and Silva slumps with a release of breath. Instead, I say, “Guess we’ll be eating red velvet cake at graduation.” ” She rolls around on the balls of her feet. It’s out there, and she’s chewing it over like a piece of tough steak.
There hasn’t been a brush fire in Manhattan since the inception of the NYPD, and thus, it isn’t part of the assigned study material. And he’s telling me without words that throwing this code-active brush fire in progress-at Silva makes me an asshole. I look around the table to judge if anyone recognizes the code, but only Charlie stares back at me with knowledge in his eyes. She’s looking at me like she wants a challenge, so I give her one. Jesus, this is beginning to make my dick hard.
That one gets her stuck for a second, and I find myself willing the answer into her brain.
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