Page 9 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

For the next thirty minutes, I attempt to brief him on the Jackson case.

He talks. A lot.

“And then,” he says, flipping through the witness statement, “I told the guy, ‘You can run, but you’re still dumb enough to use your ex-girlfriend’s Hulu account.’ Boom. He was arrested in under six hours.”

“Riveting.”

He leans in. “You always this grumpy before breakfast, kid?”

I grit my teeth.

“I’m not a kid, I’m twenty-five. You look younger than me. Are you old enough to be here?”

“You’re short. And kind of mean. Like the Sour Patch Kids commercials. It fits you.” He flashes that stupid grin. “Twenty-nine.”

Hmm. He looks younger. That plus his good-boy haircut, basically screams cop.

I wonder if he has any tattoos hidden beneath his button-up. I doubt it. He looks like he’s going to sell Bibles. With those hazel eyes, I’m sure women line up for the privilege of hearing every one of his dumb stories.

I roll my eyes, a move I most definitely stole from Marge, and force my attention back to the paperwork.

Then I fantasize about tasing him. Briefly. Fine, it’s actually a vivid and bloody daydream.

By noon, I’m done pretending this reassignment is anything short of a disaster and storm to the break room. My heels click against the scuffed linoleum.

When the door swings open, I exhale. Unfortunately, two uniforms are sitting around the table. I need some space.

“Scram.”

The satisfaction from how quickly they exit makes me feel better.

I drop into a chair and yank my phone out of my pocket. Then I call Marge and vent while inhaling a sandwich that tastes like cardboard.

“He calls me kid,” I grumble around a bite. “Like I’m some rookie intern with a gun.”

“He’s probably flirting with you,” she says, amused.

“He’s probably suicidal.”

She laughs.

“Well, if he’s hot, maybe let him live. Nothing wrong with a little eye-candy at work. I won’t tell your boyfriend.”

“Hush, I would never. Julian is…” I wad up my sandwich wrapper and crush it in my fist. “Ugh. Remind me to never ask you for advice again.”

“You should’ve called Georgie if you wanted sunshine and rainbows.”

She cackles, and I can’t help but join her.

We talk for a while. She fills me in on her latest sewing project, baby bedding. Her life sounds so domestic and sweet enough to make my teeth ache. One of her men calls her, and we make dinner plans before saying goodbye.

After pouting for at least ten more minutes, I head back to my office.

Elliot’s lounging in my chair with his feet on my desk. I slam a file down hard enough to make him jump.

“Get your boots off my desk.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. His hazel eyes sparkle with amusement.