Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I turn back to my sink and finish brushing my teeth, spitting and rinsing before replacing my toothbrush in its holder.
I pull my long brown hair up in front of my shoulders, fluff some volume into it, and smear some light-pink gloss across my mouth to finish the look.
After exiting my bathroom and turning out the light behind me, I grab my phone from my nightstand and slide my rings onto my fingers. Then I make my way into the kitchen, where Lovie stands at the counter, drinking a cup of coffee. My mom sits on the couch in front of the TV, her hair done, her makeup in place, and her look finished with a smart button-up shirt.
Ever since I was a little girl, she has been the type of woman who never lounged around in her pajamas or skipped any of her hygiene practices. Even with her mind fogged with Alzheimer’s, a lot of that is still muscle memory. It just takes a little reminding and encouraging from Lovie and me.
And it’s worth the effort. My mother’s state of mind thrives when she’s sticking to her usual routine, even if she doesn’t always remember the specific steps.
“Morning, Lovie,” I greet her, my mood much improved from yesterday thanks to the sleep I got last night. Having the patrol car Dom sent over sitting in front of the house was incredibly boosting for my peace of mind.
It felt like I could finally just relax, and for the first time in several weeks, my shoulders aren’t tensed right beneath my ears.
“Hey, Hannah Banana.” Lovie gives my jeans and off-the-shoulder lilac shirt a smiling once-over. “Boy, you look pretty today. Look a lot more like you’re feeling yourself too. I’m glad.”
“I’m feeling lots better, thanks.”
“You know, hon, I was thinking a lot about you last night, and I want you to know that I think you’re doing a good thing. Helping the police like you are,” she says, her voice only loud enough for my ears. “I know sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, but all that good karma comes back.”
“Thanks, Lovie.”
My mom jumps up from the couch, her excitement palpable as a scene from NCIS plays on the screen behind her. I try my best to figure out what episode it is quickly, so I’m prepared to say what she needs me to.
I think it’s the end of an episode in season 4, called “Friends & Lovers.” Strangely enough, if I’m remembering correctly, it’s the one where they suspect a petty officer died from an accidental drug overdose, but, really, he was murdered. Which, to be honest, is some kind of flipping irony. From what I’ve overheard from Dom and Shane, this episode might as well be a fictional reflection of my actual life right now.
“Ziva!” my mom exclaims, a big smile on her face, which I can’t not return.
“Hey, Sherry.”
“You off to meet up with Tony and Gibbs?”
“Yep. Headed to meet up with them now,” I answer, and I feel like I’m only half lying. In her mind, Dom and Shane are Tony and Gibbs.
“Listen, Ziva. Things could get hairy, okay?” Her eyes turn serious. “Just watch your six.”
“You got it, Sherry,” I agree, seeing as it’s not exactly bad advice these days.
Lovie hands me a packed lunch in the form of a grocery bag full of food, and I smile gratefully before grabbing my purse and keys and heading down the stairs and out the front door. The Camaro still sits at the curb, and I decide to take a little detour toward it so I can say thank you. It’s the least I can do. Whoever it is, they gave up their night for us.
I get to the slightly black-tinted passenger side window and raise my hand to knock, but when the window rolls down and Dom’s face comes into view, I freeze.
“Morning,” he says, but my throat is so tight with confusion I can barely squeak out a hello.
But seriously, what is he doing here? I thought he was sending a car?
Dom stretches a little and climbs out of the car, leaning over top of it with a smile. His hair is tousled and messy, and the white T-shirt he’s wearing is rumpled from what I now realize must have been a full night spent in his car. Something inside my belly flips and twists and turns—something warm and confusing and impossible to ignore.
He looks good. Really good. And I promptly ignore it.
“I thought you were sending a patrol car?” I ask, shaking my head. “Have you been here all night?”
“Guilty,” he says, holding up both hands with a grin. “We just didn’t have any patrols free, so I decided to do it myself.”
My heart lurches beneath my ribs, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe. “You . . . you stayed here all night?”