by Elise Faber
Amusement flickering on the edges of her expression, she tapped me lightly on the nose. “There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Careful,” I growled, snagging her hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist.
Blue eyes dimming slightly. “I’m always careful.” A pause. “Well, almost always.” Her lips pressed flat, released, going plump and kissable again, her tone clearly telling me that she wasn’t going to be open to me pushing her for more information about whatever the fuck that meant.
I had patience in spades.
I knew that trust would come all in good time.
But I fucking hated that she didn’t trust me enough to tell me all the heavy shit, the sad shit, the bad shit. I wanted to know every bit, to shoulder it, to make it less burdensome for her, even as I knew that I hadn’t yet earned that right.
“I’ll consider answering the question,” she repeated, the statement’s manner telling me there would be no negotiating on that front. Which was fine, I’d just need to be very careful with what I asked and to make it count. “Last, for the date . . .” Her gaze trailed up, met mine, holding for several moments. “Are you sure that you’re ready to do that?” She swallowed. “I mean . . . it hasn’t been that long since I asked and—”
I covered her hand with mine. “I’m sure.”
Brown brows pulling together. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I told her. “I meant it when I told you a few days ago that I was coming to apologize before the explosion. I’ve thought of little else over the last few months except how much of a dick I was to you.” I shoved a hand through my hair. “That was a wake-up call for me. I didn’t like the person I’d become, hated that I’d hurt you.” My hand dropped to my side. “That moment, realizing what I’d done, who I was becoming . . . it had me planning my apology to you ever since.”
She inhaled, let it out slowly. “Oh.”
My mouth twitched. “That’s it?”
Eyes narrowing into a mock glare, she sat back on the chair like it was her throne. “You’re not funny.”
“Your laughter would tell me otherwise.”
More mock glaring. “Hmm.” Then she waved a hand before steepling both in front of her chin. “Commence with the guessing already.”
“Feeling like a queen?” I teased, thinking she’d embraced my earlier thought fully.
“More like a king,” she said. “Or some all-powerful, gender-neutral ruler who has minions kneeling at her feet.” She mimed putting on a crown. “Now, I just need a scepter.”
Chuckling, I stood and reached into the corner, tossing her the dusting rod that someone had left there. “Here you go.”
“Ah, thank you, minion.”
Smile huge, laughter bubbling in my chest, I ignored the urge to move back to her, to continue teasing each other, and to see the way her eyes danced with humor when I scored a particularly good one-liner.
Instead, I made my way to the romance shelf.
Because I’d been paying attention to the paperbacks she’d been carrying around. Because I knew she read these books with their colorful covers (and sexy man chests) and guaranteed happy endings. I also knew she had her favorites.
I’d seen her carrying those tattered paperbacks around, spines creased from re-reads. I’d noted them on her desk, stacked along one edge, or stuffed into the side pocket of her cargos.
I’d paid attention.
I’d deduced her favorite authors.
One of whom had a book that had been released just a few days before.
Said book happened to find its way to this shelf for this exact reason. Not that I’d expected it to be tonight, I’d just . . . been plotting and planning for the opportunity to give it to her.
A KTS agent knew when to be prepared, knew when to lay charges in advance, knew that planning often saved missions from going FUBAR.
And tonight, my planning would come into play.
But because I had three guesses, I couldn’t resist playing with her. Just a little bit. I bypassed the romance section, walked straight to the shelf with the military history tomes, and picked up the oldest, heaviest one I could find. Then I walked it back over to Olive. “This one,” I said, plunking it into her lap.
She grabbed at the book before it could slide from her lap. “History of Ammunitions circa 1916-1928.” Her eyes met mine, mouth tipped up at the corners. “You shouldn’t have,” she added dryly.
“It’s a fascinating read—”
“No,” she interrupted. “What’s fascinating is the fact that you somehow think that I don’t know you’re messing with me.”
I laughed, snagged the book, and put it back in its spot. “I couldn’t resist.”
“Your funeral,” she said. “And now, you only have two guesses left.”
“Hmm.” I tapped my fingers across the shelves. “Decisions, decisions.”
“You know, you didn’t specify what would happen when you blew your three chances. What’s my consolation prize?”
I grabbed another laughable book—this one about yak migration through Nepal—and moved back to the chair, handing it over. “You didn’t negotiate for a consolation prize.”
She glanced at the title then up at me. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I just grinned.
“There is no way this is an actual book,” she said, running her fingers over the cover. “You’ve seriously got to be kidding me.”
I snagged it back, returned it to the shelf, and this time . . . I made my play, grabbing the new release, carefully hiding the cover as I returned to the chair again. “What do you want for a consolation prize?”
Playful blue eyes, fingertips tapping together in a very going-to-take-over-the-world type of way. “Oh, man, the possibilities are absolutely endless. What torture should I enact?”
“You could always kiss me,” I pointed out.
Those lush lips curved up. “And where’s the torture in that?”
“It’s torture because I know that I can’t do anything more than kiss you”—I ran my free hand along the outside of her arm, my fingertips brushing the outer curve of her breast—“even though I’m quite desperate to do so much more than that.”
“Quite desperate?” she asked.
I nodded, repeated the motion with my hand, only this time moving up instead of down. “Quite is a small word for what I want to do with you.”
She shivered. “So, kissing as my consolation prize.” Her voice was barely more than a murmur, but the heat in her eyes was palpable. “I suppose that I can consider torturing you a reasonable prize.”
“Well,” I said, still hiding the book. “You’d better take your consolation prize now.”
Her brows lifted. “You’re not even going to try for a third time?”
I shrugged.
“Never thought of you as a quitter.” She leaned forward in the chair, brought her mouth within a hairsbreadth of mine. “Okay then,” she said. “Let the torture begin.” And then her mouth came to mine.
Fire.
Licking down my spine, spreading throughout my limbs, reducing my control to cinders.
All just from her lips on mine, from her tongue dancing alongside mine, her moan vibrating through our mouths, drifting through my body until it sank into my cells. Her hands came up to grip my shoulders, to bring me closer, and . . . I could just keep kissing this woman for an eternity.
But we needed to breathe.
I drew back, smoothed my hand along her cheek, sitting back on my heels, and . . . deposited the book I’d kept hidden on her lap.
She felt the weight, glanced down.
Then burst into tears.
Chapter Nine
KTS Satellite Base
Western Georgia
04:46hrs
Olive
Heck if I knew why I was crying, except to say that it seemed like everything hit me, all at once.
The explosion. The pain. The fear. This man. His words.<
br />
And . . . the fucking book.
All of it weighed heavy on me, sinking down into my heart, seeping into my abdomen, cluttering up my mind . . .
And I lost it.
Just full-on burst into tears.
Look, I was a woman who didn’t have a problem crying. Give me a sad article or news story, a cheesy romcom, or one of those SPCA commercials, and I became a freaking watering pot.
But in the real world?
When shit got stressful and people were hurt, when situations were dangerous—or not. In the course of a normal freaking day, where normal things were happening, where normal people were interacting . . . I absolutely never had meltdowns.
I was even, steady—whether it was life or death, or just . . . life.
But somehow, give me a half hour with this man, his care, his banter, the way he looked at me, and a freaking book I’d been dying to read, and I was practically drowning in my own tears and snot.
Because I was not a cute, dainty crier.
I was swollen eyes and a running nose. I was tear tracks and hitching sobs. I was . . .
Being lifted into a set of strong arms.
Linc scooped me up then took my spot in the chair, gently turning me so I was situated in his lap. And then he just held me, running his hand lightly through my hair, not saying a word as I cried for reasons unbeknownst to myself.
“I wondered when this was going to happen,” he whispered.
Sniffing loudly—because circling back to ugly crying and snot and tears—I pushed lightly against his chest until I could see his face. “What do you mean?”
“You nearly died, Pop.” His hand didn’t stop tracing those gentle patterns. “Most people have this reaction sooner or later.”
“Snot?” I asked, wiping my face unceremoniously on my sleeve. If the man had a problem with my personal hygiene, then he could suck it. It wasn’t like I had a box of tissues in my pocket.
He didn’t comment about my snot.
Instead, he just kept stroking my back as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of tissues. He handed it to me, and I spent the next few moments wiping my eyes and nose.
With actual tissues.
Because this man . . .
“How did you know about the book?” I whispered.
He shrugged, a difficult feat with me in his arms. “I pay attention.”
“Linc,” I began.
“Do you want to read here?” he asked. “Or take it back to the infirmary?”
“Linc,” I said again.
“How are you—” I struggled for a moment. “The book—” A shake of my head. “The tears. The tissues—” God, I felt my eyes start to well again. Maybe it was just because of the explosion, being near death. Except . . . this outburst of emotion felt like more.
Like I was standing on the precipice and looking over that edge, terrified to leap, yet knowing I was going to hop over anyway.
“It’s simple, baby. I pay attention,” he whispered. Then his voice strengthened, returned to his normal crisp tone. “Now, do you want to read here or the infirmary?”
And I found I could return to normal, too. Or at least some semblance of it. “Neither.”
His brows furrowed.
I lifted my chin. “I want to read in my own bed, without people coming in and out, without interruptions, with real rest—not rest in a hospital room.”
A shake of his head. “I can’t discharge you, yet.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why not?”
“Because—”
“I’ve been checking my own chart, you know,” I muttered. “It’s not like I can’t see that I’m ready to be recuperating in my quarters. I was going to push the issue tomorrow, or rather today,” I added.
“Well, I’m not letting you go back to your rooms alone.”
I scowled.
His eyes held a thread of emotion I couldn’t distinguish. “So, you’ll just have to come with me to mine.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
But he was already on his feet, with me still in his arms. I grabbed the book before it could fall, held on as best I could as he shifted to open the door, and then we were in the hall, and he was still carrying me as he walked.
“Um—”
“Infirmary or my bed,” he said.
“Um,” was still all I could manage.
Pick a step, Olive, I counseled myself. First, walk on your own. Then an argument about sleeping arrangements.
“Pop,” he warned.
“Put me down.”
He ignored me, kept walking, using his key card to open a door I knew led to sleeping quarters. They weren’t where my team and I were housed, but the layout was familiar enough. A long corridor, doors on either side that led to small sets of rooms, each with their own bedroom, kitchenette, living area, and bathroom.
“I thought you were giving me a choice.”
“I was,” he said. “Until you didn’t make one.” His eyes met mine, brows flicking up in a gesture daring me to argue, and I knew I should have argued, just like I should have pressed for him to put me down. But after my late-night walk, and the time in the library, and my crying fit, frankly, I was exhausted.
So, I let him carry me to his rooms, and I didn’t say another damned word about it.
He set me on the bed . . . also something I didn’t say anything about, nor did I complain when he tucked the blankets around me, when he turned on the small lamp next to the bed.
I did, however, complain when he toed off his shoes and then started to make himself comfortable in the armchair, his phone in hand as he stared at the screen.
“Hey.”
He looked up.
I jumped over that cliff.
Also known as, I patted the bed next to me. “Come here.”
His brows rose again, and this time it was an, “Are you serious?” flick of those dark brown strips of hair.
I nodded.
And a moment later, he was in bed.
Next to me.
My heart rate galloped through my veins and arteries. My palms went sweaty, almost making me lose my grip on the book.
“Okay?” he whispered.
I nodded again. This time because I was unable to form words. He was just so . . . much, and I felt panic lick at the edges of my mind. What in the hell was I doing? I was in his room, in his bed. I’d forgiven him for hurting my feelings a few months back, but was I really doing this? Was I really going to jump, to hurl myself over the cliff? That was dangerous and stupid and—
“Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
I blinked.
His eyes were filled with humor, his brows waggling, and I couldn’t help but relax, laughter slipping out of me to fill the room. It was too loud, too much, and I started to lift a hand to my mouth, to stifle it.
Linc caught it. “Don’t.”
I looked at him questioningly.
“I love your laugh,” he murmured. “Don’t hide it.”
“Oh.” But I wasn’t laughing now. I was touched, the panic a forgone thought.
“Yeah. Oh.” He smoothed back my hair, shifting on the mattress. It was only a full-sized, so it wasn’t like there was a ton of room to maneuver—something I probably should have considered before inviting him to lie next to me. I hadn’t, of course, so we both ended up dancing around each other as we both tried to get enough space to be comfortable.
A minute later, I had my head on his shoulder and my book propped on his chest, and we were . . . lying in bed together.
How was this even a thing?
“Read your book,” he murmured, a couple of minutes later, when I’d just lain there like a statue continuing to wonder how it was a thing, how I’d ended up in this bed with this man, invitation or not.
I obeyed.
Not because he’d given me the order.
But because I’d waited six months for this book, and it was finally in my hot, little hands, and I wanted to read it
.
Now.
And it was just as good as I’d hoped, as I’d wanted it to be.
I awoke on a slightly rumbling male chest.
My mouth was dry, throat scratchy, and it felt like I’d slept a dozen hours. I shifted slightly to look at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it had actually been fourteen hours.
The book was on the nightstand, with what looked like a receipt marking the page where I must have dozed off, and it seemed that I’d stolen all the covers.
Linc’s bare feet were poking out at the bottom, and there was something sexy about male feet—or at least, about this male’s feet, because they weren’t gross looking, just strong and competent—could feet be competent? Probably not, but also, this just in . . . I was losing my mind, waxing poetic about strong, competent feet.
Next, those feet would have a sense of humor to go along with all that strength and competence and—
Enough.
I’d been curled up on my good side, but my wound was throbbing from the position anyway.
Carefully, I shifted, rolling flat on my back and waiting for the burning to subside. Which, thankfully, didn’t take long. I was definitely healing, and even though I was ready to be done with the whole process, I knew my progress to date had been remarkable. Now, I just needed to behave and take it easy, just as I always ordered my patients to do.
Rest. Don’t push it. Let my body recuperate.
The trouble was the advice was a lot harder to accept than it was to dish out.
I wanted to find out who’d planted the bomb—was it Daniel? Was it someone else? Did we have another traitor? Or had an enemy somehow managed to penetrate our defenses?
Normally, I would be in on all of the briefings to understand what had happened, instead of stuck in a hospital bed. But I had been stuck in a bed, and I would probably be stuck there for most of my immediate future. Small bursts of activity, then back to bed. Maybe up for a meal or two, then lying down to rest again.
For someone like me, who thrived on being busy, on working on a dozen projects at once, the idea of forced rest was a difficult pill to swallow.
I would take it, of course.
Because I knew it was the proper treatment for my recovery—along with keeping the wound clean, watching for any sign of infection, and then eventually taking the sutures out.
