Closer (Stage Dive 4.60)

Or maybe he only had that effect on me. If so, I could seriously do without the complication. Dammit.

“Miss?”

And I’d been staring at the man again. “I’m sorry, Ziggy. I kind of zoned out there for a minute. Were you saying something?”

“Only that I better get on with it. I’ll be down in the garage. If you need me, just contact me on my cell.”

“Why the garage?” I asked, curious.

“I’d like to give your vehicle a quick check over, followed by your apartment.”

His phone started to vibrate again.

“Do you need to take that call?”

“No, miss.”

“What are you looking for in my car and apartment?”

“Anything that shouldn’t be there. Listening devices, mostly.”

“You think that the crazy person who mailed me a skewered heart might be bugging my car? Psycho nut does Mission Impossible?”

“No. My concern is with the press.”

I paused. “You think someone might have been listening into my conversations and that’s how the story got leaked?”

“It’s highly unlikely,” he said. “But I’d feel better if I checked and since I have the time...”

“All right. And thank you for listening to me moan before.”

“Anytime, miss. It’s all part of the service.” The skin around his eyes crinkled a little. It might be the closest thing to a grin I’d ever see on his face.

It made me smile for real.

He nodded as if pleased, then stalked off. The man was like a big jungle cat. I’d sauntered and strutted down plenty of walkways. But away from that world, I was more likely to stub my toe on a coffee table than move with any particular grace. Ziggy’s movements seemed innate. A quintessential part of him. Guess they probably trained you in the military to stand tall and walk like you mean it and everything. Kind of made me wonder how he did other things. Private things I had no business thinking about. I needed to stop sexually harassing the man inside my head. It was bad and wrong and I should know better. I really should.

A couple of hours later, Ziggy stood in front of my kitchen island, taking in the array of food on display. His eyes were the size of plates. Guess I’d impressed him. My chocolate cake, brownies, and chocolate chip cookies sure impressed me. And chocolate was important for any sort of balanced diet. After all, I was a growing girl (spiritual growth mattered) who needed to keep her strength up to deal with the harsh realities of life and douchebags on the internet. After half an hour or so of book sorting, I needed to change activities. Maybe I had a case of the overtired freaked-out hysterics. But I had to be up and on my feet doing something and moving around. I had a killer of a sweet tooth so that made the decision easy.

“I stress bake. It’s kind of my thing,” I explained, wiping my hands on my apron. “Are you hungry? Do you like sweet things?”

“I love sweet things.”

“Excellent. Take a seat.”

He sat on one of the stools on the opposite side of the island, watching me serve him a fork along with a plate containing one of everything. The small walkie talkie looking type thing he’d been using to search for listening devices lay in front of him.

“Did you find anything?” I asked.

“No.”

“That’s good to know. Did you know desserts taste better when eaten with a fork?”

“Is that a fact?”

“Absolutely. Try it and see. The only caveat is to not attempt it with ice cream or pudding. That can get messy,” I said. “Milk or coffee?”

“Water will be fine. Thank you, Miss Cooper.”