“What about Sofia?”
“I don’t have any reason not to.”
“What about Doc?”
She shrugged. “You seem to trust him.”
“With my life, but this isn’t my list. If you’re unsure, he goes on the third list.”
“People I trust, those I don’t, and ones I’m unsure of.”
“That’s right.”
She nodded. “Most everyone is on the unsure list. Striker, though, I’d add to the list of people I don’t trust.”
“Roger that.”
“You aren’t going to try to convince me otherwise?”
“Absolutely not.”
He checked his phone. There weren’t any messages, but it was getting late.
“Let me guess, you’re hungry.”
Dutch laughed out loud. “It’s never a question of whether I am or not, just to what degree.”
“Are you getting tired of Spanish food yet?”
“No…”
Malin stood and walked over to the pantry and then opened the refrigerator.
“You’re in luck,” she told him.
“Yeah?”
“Yep. Although you’ll have to accept marinara from a jar.” Malin pulled ground beef and eggs out of the fridge; pasta, sauce, and breadcrumbs from the cupboard.
“You have no idea how happy I am right now. Anything I can do to help?”
“Would you mind seeing if we can piece together garlic bread?”
“In exchange for your spaghetti and meatballs? It’s the least I’d be willing to do.”
“Well, you did save my life.”
“I did, Malin.” Dutch looked into her eyes. Was she teasing, or had she accepted that Orlov would’ve killed her?
“Thank you,” she murmured. “It means a lot that you have my back, Dutch.”
He walked over and put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her forehead. “Always, baby. I hope you know how sincerely I mean that.”
She brought her lips to his in a kiss that was more chaste than he would’ve liked. However, she was about to make his favorite meal ever, so he wouldn’t do anything to distract her.
—:—
Dutch devoured three-quarters of the pound of spaghetti Malin cooked, and all but two o