“You won’t allow it?” I jerk my chin stubbornly. “Last I checked, you aren’t my father or my brother or my husband. You don’t make decisions for me. Starting now, the only one who makes decisions for me… is me.”
His eyes flash with dark rage. I get the sense he’d like nothing more than to take me by the shoulders and physically shake some sense into me.
“You are making a mistake,” he growls. “Trust me on that.”
“Didn’t you hear me earlier?” I whisper. “That’s the problem, Gallagher. I don’t trust you.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Call me crazy, but it looks like hurt. Before I can overanalyze it, I tear my eyes from his and turn in my seat to face Sykes. She looks pleased as punch by this turn of events.
“So…” I take a deep breath. “Tell me how this is going to work.”
The car ride back to Somerville is quiet.
Did I say quiet?
I meant a deathtrap of awkward silence so thick, it’s a struggle to breathe.
Conor has been seething in silent rage since I agreed to act as bait for the Evanoff brothers. Honestly, I’m not sure why he’s so angry. It’s not his ass on the line, here. He should be thanking me! If things go well, he’ll probably end up with a promotion and a pay raise for bringing down two of Alexei Petrov’s top henchman.
It’s late afternoon now, and I’m so exhausted I can hardly hold my head up. Today’s nonstop interrogation has worn me out far more than yesterday’s kidnapping. I can’t wait to get home, lock my door, set my alarm, and crawl into bed — safe in the knowledge that Conor and an entire SWAT team of trained FBI agents are armed and ready just down the block, should the Evanoffs decide to make an encore appearance.
We’re five minutes from my house when we take an unexpected detour. I glance over at Conor, prepared to tell him we’re going the wrong way, only to see him turning the wheel into the drive-thru of my favorite healthy(ish) fast food place. The words die on my lips as he pulls to a stop by the speaker and I realize someone up there has heard my prayers.
We’re finally getting food!
Praise the lord!
I’m so hungry, I could eat a cow right now — and I’ve been a strict vegetarian since my freshman year of college. My mouth fills with saliva as I listen to Conor ordering himself a large steak burrito with a side of chips and guac. I wait for him to turn and ask me what I’d like, but he doesn’t bother.
He already knows.
“Can I also get the squash blossom quesadilla on a corn tortilla — hold the quick-pickled onions — with a side of the grilled street corn. And a double serving of the blue tortilla chips with the black bean salsa on the side. The mild one, not the spicy.” He pauses, lips twisting. “Oh, I’ll also need one of those iced pink drinks with the round ball shit on the bottom.”
I’m flabbergasted to hear him rattle off my regular to-go order, word for word — down to the spice threshold of my salsa and the hibiscus bubble tea. Either this is some freakish coincidence, or…
Conor looks over at me. His brows lift when he sees my expression. “What?”
“That’s… that’s what I always get!” I blurt.
“I’m aware,” he says like I’m an idiot. “You want something different this time?”
“N-no,” I stutter. “I just…”
I just want to know how the hell you memorized my exact favorite meal without ever asking me.
“Spit it out, Hunt.”
“How did you know?”
He shrugs. “You come here all the time.”
“But— but—”
“Is there a problem? Or can I pull up to the window?” His scowl is back. “We’re holding up the line.”
My mouth closes and I shake my head. “By all means. Carry on.”
He takes his foot off the brake and I stare dead ahead as we roll forward, trying like hell to get my wildly spiraling thoughts under control. But it’s no use. Even after we’re back on the road to my house, a bag of delicious Mexican food warming my lap, I can’t stop myself from stealing small glances at the man in the driver’s seat… and wondering what other infinitesimal details of my life he’s committed to memory, these past few months.
Chapter Seven
CONTROL FREAK
“Ohmuhgawd,” I say around a massive mouthful. “This is the best meal I’ve ever had.”
Conor shakes his head at me and takes another bite out of his burrito.
I slurp down a large gulp of my iced tea. “What? I mean it.”
“You eat this exact meal twice a week.”
“So?”
“So how can something you eat two times a week suddenly rank as the best meal you’ve ever had?”
“Certainly not due to the company.” I toss a chip at his head.
“Cute.”
Wadding up the empty wrapper from my quesadilla, I shift forward on my stool so I can reach the chips and salsa sitting between us on the kitchen island. “God, someone take these away from me. I could eat an entire bag of them.”
“Why do you think I got a double order?”
I sigh and pop another in my mouth, chewing absently. “I’ll pretend it’s a cheat day. Calories don’t count after FBI interrogations. Right?”
“Relax. I doubt they’ll strip you of your Health Freak status based on one day of indulgence.”
“Spoken like a man with a super fast metabolism.” I tilt my head. “I suppose you, like most cops, subsist on a diet of doughnuts and crappy coffee?”
“Not exclusively.” His lips twitch. “Though I will admit, your close proximity to Union Square Donuts has been one silver lining about this surveillance gig. They make a mean Boston Cream.”
“Mmm, I can hear your arteries clogging as we speak.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“It’s your funeral.”
“My bad.” He swallows the last bite of his steak burrito. “I forgot how uptight you get about food.”
My mouth falls open at that statement. “I am not uptight about food! I’m merely… health conscious.”
“You eat all organic, all the time. Never skip a day of working out, so far as I can tell. Not to mention you get all high and mighty when someone has the nerve to consume sugar around you.”
He takes a large sip of his soda, just to prove his point. I can’t quite hide my wince as I think about the amount of fructose settling in the pit of his stomach.
“See what I mean?” He shakes his head. “You can hardly watch.”
Not wanting to fuel the fire of his accusations, I bite my lip to contain the words… but they burst out anyway. “Processed sugar is a death sentence! It’s just as dangerous to your health as smoking cigarettes! Ask a doctor if you don’t believe me.”
“Why would I need a doctor when I’ve got you here to lecture me for free?”
I pause. “Are you mocking me?”
“Only a little.” His mouth tugs up at one side as he contemplates me. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re all fired up, Hunt,” he says in a voice that, compared to his regular steely tones, is remarkably warm. So warm, it makes me feel warm too. Warm and flushed and fluttery with…
With embarrassment, I tell myself stubbornly. Nothing more.
“Perhaps you should get your head examined as well, next time you visit said doctor,” I suggest sweetly.
“I’ll do that. Soon as you get yours checked out for being such a control freak.”
“I am not a control freak!
He just stares at me.
“I’m not!” I insist.
He doesn’t refute me but his eyes sweep around the kitchen, taking in every surface, every detail in that intense way of his. I know what he’s seeing — the lack of clutter. The total organization of every shelf, every drawer, every nook and cranny.
My whole house is this way. More like a beautiful museum of artifacts, than a place to call home.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, narrowi
ng my eyes.
“Like what, Hunt?
“Like I’m some kind of freak!”
“Never said you were a freak. Never said anything, actually.”
“Oh, whatever. You communicate more with a condescending look than most people can in ten minutes of blabbering.”
“Was that a compliment or an insult?” he asks, bemused.
“Guess,” I snap caustically.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just wondering why you’re so fixated on making every facet of your life scheduled and organized.”
“What’s so wrong with liking things neat?”
“There’s neat, then there’s… antiseptic.” He holds my eyes. “There’s no trace of you in this whole house. Nothing personal. No photographs. No mementos. No cheesy collectable keychains from bad vacations or boxes full of ticket stubs. Nothing sentimental at all. It’s been scrubbed clean of all signs of life.”
The things he’s saying are making impact in the left side of my chest, each word another knife wound, cutting me open.
“First time I came in here, I thought I had the wrong house,” he murmurs. “Surely someone so full of life couldn’t live here, in this glorified mausoleum.”
I scowl at him to cover my suddenly racing heartbeat. “So, I’m orderly! Sue me. I happen to like things organized.”
“It’s not about order or organization. It’s about control.” His voice has gotten remarkably serious, his eyes unusually intent. “You control every aspect of your life with meticulous precision, whether it’s every piece of food you put in your mouth or every piece of furniture in this house.” He gestures around at our immaculate surroundings. “Fact is, Hunt, you control every perfect detail of your life. Six months watching you, I’ve hardly ever seen you with a hair out of place until yesterday — and only then because you were kidnapped.”
My temper is rising. “For the record, there’s nothing wrong with control. There’s nothing wrong with having a routine and sticking to it.”
“Sure,” he says simply. “So long as that routine doesn’t start controlling you — not the other way around.”
I bristle and hop off my barstool. “Listen here, bucko… You think just because you watched me from afar and memorized my take-out order, you somehow know me? You don’t know anything about me!”
He doesn’t reply. He just stares at me for a long beat before asking, “You always this defensive?”
“Are you always this invasive?”
He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Just trying to get to know you a bit better. See why you’re so damned obsessed with appearing flawless to everyone in your life, whether its friends, neighbors, yoga students, or your idiot husband.”
“Your psychoanalysis is noted and summarily rejected.”
I snatch the wrappers off the counter and toss them in the trash beneath the sink, moving on autopilot to clear away all traces of the mess. With an angry yank, I grab a paper towel from its roll along with a bottle of multipurpose cleaner and begin aggressively spraying the kitchen island. I grit my teeth as I wipe it clean, channeling my anger into each swipe of my arm.
What a jerk! Thinks he knows me… HA! The only thing he knows is how to piss me off in five seconds or less…
When the counter is sparkling, I stow my supplies back beneath the sink and take a deep breath. Feeling marginally calmer, I finally look in Conor’s direction… only to find him watching me with undeniable amusement. His eyes are knowing; his lips are twitching. I can practically hear his thoughts as he scans the shining countertop.
What were you just saying about not being totally obsessed with perfection?
“Ugh!” I grunt. “Don’t even say it!”
“Say what?”
“You know exactly what, Gallagher.” My eyes narrow. “I am not some science project to be dissected.”
His jaw locks. “That’s not how I see you at all.”
“Oh — but wait!” I slap a hand against the countertop with a loud bang. “That’s right! I am your little science project, aren’t I? A case to be studied? An asset to be analyzed? Thanks so much for reminding me. I almost forgot you’re just here doing your job!”
The whole room goes scarily silent. I don’t even dare to breathe as I stare at him, wishing I could snatch back the words I’ve just blurted. Words that, like it or not, offer a bit too much insight into the unfamiliar emotions churning inside me.
I almost forgot you were just here doing your job.
It’s true.
I had forgotten.
Conor is watching me carefully. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously soft, but there’s nothing gentle about it. “And what else would I possibly be doing here, Hunt?”
My mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again.
I have no retort. No clever comeback.
He climbs to his feet, looming over me as he advances. A lock of messy black hair falls into his eyes. He’s so tall, I have to crane my neck back to continue glaring at him when he comes to a stop two feet away.
“We aren’t friends,” he says in that same scary-soft tone. “I am here to protect you. That’s it.”
“Obviously,” I snap coldly, ignoring the lance of pain through my heart. “You weren’t invited into my life, that’s for damn sure. I actually have to like the people I spend time with.”
“My purpose here is not to make you like me.”
“Mission accomplished, then! Because I don’t.”
“Let’s get something straight.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t give a shit if you wind up hating me when this is all over, Hunt. So long as you’re alive and hating me, I’ll consider it a success.”
“So long as I’m alive and never have to spend another second in your company, I’ll consider it a blessing!”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
“Same bloody syllable!”
We’re both breathing too fast, glaring at each other through narrowed eyes. I’m not sure how it happened, but we’re each leaning in — so close, there’s only a half-foot of space remaining between our faces. I tell myself to pull back, to walk away, to take some cool-down time alone in my bedroom… but I can’t seem to do any of that. The only thing I’m capable of focusing on in this moment is Conor’s mouth, alarmingly close to my own.
I stare at the thin top lip, the fuller bottom one, and find myself wondering whether they’re soft or hard. Whether he kisses like he talks — with an all-consuming presence that commandeers every ounce of my attention without even trying.
“Hunt.”
My name is practically a growl on his lips. A warning and a plea all rolled into one. My eyes fly up to his and I see they’ve gone cold again — closed off from all emotions. Flat and unfathomable as a quarry.
“Go to bed,” he orders, visceral tension radiating from every atom in his body. “Now.”
I flinch back instantly, reeling out of his space like he’s slapped me across the face. Cheeks flaming with indignation — certainly not embarrassment, what on earth would I be embarrassed about?! — I turn away from him so I don’t have to see that look in his eyes anymore. That cold indifference.
I’m here to protect you, he told me earlier. That’s it.
Good.
Great.
My shoulders are as stiff as my tone. “I plan on it. As soon as you leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” I protest, spinning back around. “You’re supposed to sleep in the surveillance van with the rest of your underlings. You know — around the corner, out of sight, so you don’t tip off the bad guys with your lurking.”
“That was the old deal.”
“Oh? And there’s a new deal I’m unaware of?”
“Yeah.”
“Which is…?
“I’m not leaving.”
My jaw clenches to contain a scream. I can tell from the stubborn set to Conor’s shoulders that nothing I say is going to sway him on t
his decision. And after nearly two full days without any sleep, I’m far too exhausted to fight. Worn far too thin to spend any more time in his presence, trying to decipher the thoughts occurring behind those indigo eyes.
“Fine,” I grit out. “You can crash on the couch.”
“You have four guest rooms.”
“That’s right, I do,” I murmur sweetly. “For guests. Not for prickly FBI agents with boundary issues and an insufferable need to be right all the time.”
“Fine.” He smirks darkly. “But if you get scared of the boogeyman in the middle of the night and need someone to save you, you’ll have only yourself to blame.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Huffing, I turn and walk out of the kitchen. “Or do. I couldn’t care less.”
I’d swear I hear him chuckle as I climb the stairs to the second floor.
Conor Asshole Gallagher.
I curse his name as I slam my bedroom door shut. I curse it again as I strip out of my yoga outfit — which I never want to wear ever again, so long as I live — and hop into the shower in my ensuite bathroom. I curse it a third time as I shampoo, a fourth as I condition, and a fifth as I let the water stream down on my head in a soothing torrent, washing away the grime of the past two days.
He’s infuriating, I seethe, brushing out my wet hair in the fogged up bathroom mirror. A total alpha male with zero regard for anyone’s feelings except his own.
He’s annoying, I rant, tugging on my favorite silk nightgown and climbing under my covers. A bossy, infuriating, ape of a man who cares more about his job prospects than the people he’s supposed to protect.
I toss and turn for hours, unable to sleep despite the anvils pressing down on my eyelids. The thought of Conor in my house, one floor away, stretched out on my gray sectional, is distracting enough to hold sleep at bay.
The nerve of that man!
Barging into my home, my life, my head. Analyzing me like I’m some puzzle to piece together, some intriguing set of clues to figure out. I have half a mind to storm down there and shove him out the front door to sleep on the damn porch swing. (Considering he’s two hundred pounds of pure muscle, I decide it’s probably best not to act on that particular impulse.)
So Wrong It's Right Page 8
