Chapter 222
Nima
"Oh, you're here?"
Her voice hits me like a shot of adrenaline. I nearly drop my bag.
Daphne strolls in like she owns the room—well, she does—and the scent of paint and something her, fills the space at once. She closes the door with a lazy flick of her wrist, and I swear the sound is louder than thunder.
"Yeah," I manage, my voice cracking like an untrained flute. Smooth, Nima. Very normal. Totally not panicking because you just discovered she somehow painted the inside of your dreams.
Normal, my ass.
She quirks an eyebrow. "Croaky today," she observes.
"I—uh—thirsty," I stammer. My palms are sweaty. My heart is doing some kind of chaotic drum solo.
Daphne's golden eyes sweep over me with that same unreadable sharpness, like she's peeling back layers I didn't know I had. For one terrifying second, I think she's going to ask what I was doing when she walked in. Ask why I'm standing stiffly in the middle of the room like a thief caught red-handed.
