Dragging herself dramatically into the kitchen wearing silk pajamas and sunglasses for absolutely no reason.
I stared at her.
“…Why are you dressed like a divorced celebrity?”
She removed the sunglasses slowly.
“I’m jetlagged.”
“You slept for like twelve hours.”
“I believe in rest.”
“That sounded personal.”
Amelia opened the fridge while mumbling something deeply British under her breath.
Then suddenly blinked at me.
“You’re alive.”
“Barely.”
“You still look sick.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Honestly?
She fit into Adrian’s apartment suspiciously well.
Same dry humor.
Same intimidating energy.
Just louder.
Amelia eventually settled beside me on the couch holding coffee dramatically.
Then narrowed her eyes.
“You’ve been working.”
“I was fixing Adrian’s schedule.”
