Page 118 of Silent Shadows

My chest tightens.

“Miles.”

“I know.” His voice is quieter now.

I look back at him. “Let’s keep this between us.”

His jaw shifts once. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

“I can’t become the girl who slept with her source, especially on her first big project outside of the studio,” I say.

He presses a hand to one of his temples. “And if anyone thinks I’m making calls based on you instead of evidence, the whole thing falls apart.”

“And I don’t want anyone thinking I’m here just because of you.”

Something flickers across his face—understanding, maybe. Or guilt. Or that careful, tender thing he does when he’s trying not to make me feel handled.

“You’re here because you’re good, Daisy. And because you ask the right questions.” He pauses, then chuckles. “And because I trust that you won’t make me out to be another redneck in cargo pants.”

I narrow my eyes. “The cargo pants are an issue.”

“I wore them one time. They have pockets.”

“So does a backpack.”

“I need field pockets.”

“You need a stylist.”

He exhales a laugh, but he doesn’t look away. “No one will know,” he says again. “Not until we decide otherwise.”

Until. Not if or unless.

I should correct him. I absolutely should.

Instead, I say, “Your bunk is tiny.”

His smile turns almost boyish, and he fucking winks. “I’ll make room.”

And God help me, I follow him.

Inside, the RV is warm and dim and full of sleeping sounds: A soft snore from somewhere near the back. The faint electrical hum of charging equipment. A water bottle rolling slightly as the floor shifts under our careful steps.

Miles moves through the narrow aisle like he has every inch memorized, and I’m sure he does. He probably has a labeled schematic in a folder somewhere. We get ready for bed in silence, brushing our teeth side by side in the tiny bathroom I’ve come to loathe. Folding yourself in half to shower within a few square feet is not my favorite pastime.

After rinsing his toothbrush, Miles looks at me, then turns and leaves the bathroom without a single word. Am I really about to climb into this man’s bunk? I lean back to catch a glimpse of his shirtless body. His athletic shorts hang low on his hips, showing off his unnecessarily ripped back.

Yeah. I’m climbing into his bunk.

I finish up, giving myself a quick onceover in the mirror, tugging at my tank. As I head to the bedroom, he’s pulling back his bunk curtain. I stare at it, then at him.

“Miles,” I whisper.

“I know.”