Zaire**
After breakfast, I began collecting the plates from the table, intending to load them into the dishwasher before spending a few hours catching up on work.
At least, that had been the plan.
Before I could make it to the dishwasher Kyra’s hand settled lightly against my forearm.
“Leave it.”
I glanced down at her. “Leave it?”
The smile that curved her lips immediately made me suspicious.
Not concerned.
Not worried.
Suspicious.
Because over the past several months, I had learned that particular smile usually preceded chaos.
The enjoyable kind.
The kind I never seemed capable of refusing.
“Trust me,” she said.
Those three words alone should have been enough to make me cautious.
Instead, I found myself setting the plates back onto the table.
“Alright,” I said. “What exac
