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“Not at the moment, you don’t.”
“Did you just get back or something?” I ask.
What I really want to know is why he didn’t return to my bedroom where there is a perfectly functional shower.
As if reading my mind, Bryce says, “I had to work through the night. Didn’t want to bother you.”
“OK, well, you probably have to um… whatever.”
“Ana.”
“Yup?”
“If my team wasn’t expected to come over in the next two minutes, I’d have come to your bed right after this shower.”
“That’s, ahem, that’s good to know.”
His phone pings by the nightstand. He exhales and lowers his head. “That’s them.” On cue, the garage door opens.
“I’ll make everyone coffee,” I say.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I gather a modicum of poise and begin to walk out.
“Ana.”
“Yeah?”
“Put a sweater on. Two of my guys are joining this huddle.”
“What does a sweater have to do with anything?” I guffaw. He looks down at me and my loose shirt. “I’m wearing a bra!”
His nostrils flare. “Not thick enough to cover those nipples that make my mouth water.”
“Bryce!”
“It’s fine. Wear what you want,” he says with a chuckle. “I’ll just fire whoever pisses me off.”
“Ugh, you’re impossible.” I stomp away to prepare coffee for Bryce’s team. On my way, I grab a sweater because I’m cold, not because a bossy bodyguard with handcuffs told me to.
Jake and Louis introduce themselves with stiff backs and formal handshakes. Kina is as friendly as ever, effusive about how much she misses my guest room which is superior to the bed in the hotel.
When Bryce enters the kitchen, they gather around him.
“Can we use your dining room to spread out?” he asks me.
“Of course. Is this about the person following me?”
“It’s about a number of cases, but yes, Louis has some news on the PI.”
With our mugs, we gather around the table. Bryce pulls back a chair for me and for himself side by side. As if we’re taking the news as a couple. If I hadn’t stopped myself, I would have held his hand. How nuts is that?
Not more nuts than sticking your tongue in his mouth, my snarky brain reminds me.
But kissing is an act of impulsive passion, while grasping his hand is an admission that I need him for moral and physical support. A declaration that we’re together. We’re not. A kiss and an orgasm does not constitute a relationship.
I chug coffee like I’m drinking from a chalice of wisdom. Like it will provide answers to my questions about last night. Do I want us to be together? What would that entail, exactly?
