Free Locked by Eva Morgan Page A

want pepperoni again?”
    “Didn’t you say you had her Twitter account name?” He glances up.
    “I don’t care about her Twitter account. The only thing I care about is whether or not you want pepperoni on your pizza.”
    “I told you caring is risky. See: now you can be blackmailed. I’ll trade you my pepperoni preferences for this girl’s Twitter handle.”
    “I’m just going to order pepperoni. For the sake of my sanity.” I type Sherlock’s address into the pizza place’s website, click Create Order , and shut the laptop. “Are you really going to pretend to be my girlfriend?”
    “Doubt it’s Karen Sorensen, she’s been dating someone named Dan for three months,” mutters Sherlock, absentmindedly picking rust off the armrest.
    “You’re going to have to hold my hand. In public. At least once.”
    “Chelsea Pickard—oh. Not her. Lesbian. Obviously.”
    “And kiss me. Possibly kiss me.”
    “And then there were ten.” He stretches back in the lawn chair. It groans underneath him, threatening to give out. I should probably get a camera to film the moment when Sherlock Holmes crashes to the floor atop the remains of a lawn chair. “This would go a lot faster if you gave me her Twitter handle. And stop smirking for no apparent reason.”
    “You’re always smirking.”
    “I only smirk for reasons that are apparent.”
    “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
    It’s a blunt question, not the kind I’m in the habit of asking, and it escapes from some small part of me that I hadn’t known existed.
    He straightens, impossibly elegant as always, even on a lawn chair in the middle of an unfurnished room. He never looks like he belongs. I try to think of a place where he might look like he belongs, and the only thing I can come up with is a museum.
    “I’ll tell you if you give me her Twitter handle,” he says.
    It doesn’t matter. It’s so stupid.
    “Dangergirl.”
    He smiles. “Don’t you want to know first if I’ve ever held someone’s hand? That was your first criteria for pretending to be your boyfriend.”
    “Sure, whatever.” I’m blushing now, I can feel it. This is the world’s dumbest conversation. I shouldn’t have relinquished the valuable topic of pepperoni.
    “No. I haven’t.” His gaze flicks over the screen hungrily. He speaks so distractedly that his voice gets quieter. “I’m not interested in that kind of distraction.”
    “You’re telling me you’ve never even held hands with someone? Or—someone’s held your hand, at least. Your brother. Or parents. When you were little.”
    “I’ve got an excellent memory.” He scrolls faster, the blue light reflecting on his face. “Oh, don’t sit there looking at me like that. You’ve never dated anyone either. And I’ve had considerably more opportunities than you.”
    “I used to be asked out a lot,” I say fiercely. “I used to be…”
    Pretty.
    He stops scrolling. For a second, I can’t tell if his stare is burning or freezing me, and I think he’s about to say something I’m not sure I want to hear, but instead, he says, “Daphne Brown.”
    “I did not used to be Daphne Brown.”
    “Daphne Brown,” he declares, “is the one who sent out your photo. I’ll save you the trouble of asking how I figured it out and just explain it to you. Tricky, as her location’s hidden and her name’s not used. But Dangergirl was always a clue.”
    “She…likes danger.”
    “No. You like danger. Daphne Brown likes Danger Girl , a comic book series started in 1998. And guess which one of your and Ethan’s mutual friends has this profile picture.” He swivels the laptop to face me. I blink at the little square image of a dark-haired comic book heroine.
    “I told you it would be faster,” he says. “As I said. Never wrong.”
    “So you’re a comic book nerd.” I fold my knees against my chest. “More things I know about you.”
    “Not a comic book nerd. Just observant with a good memory. Have you?”
    “Have