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I turned toward him and repositioned the pillow, stifling a yawn. “What did I do?”
Behind him, sun pierced through the window. I tilted my head to the side so his profile blocked the glare.
“You tried to distract me with sex.”
“That wasn’t sex. It was a hand job. One-sided pleasure.” I stuck out my tongue at him, and he smiled.
“I’ll rectify that situation the moment I get you out of those jeans.”
The yawn came back, and I lost the battle, reaching up my hand to cover the gesture. “That extraction process will probably have to wait. I’m exhausted.”
He ran his hand along my legs, squeezing the muscles as he went. “Why don’t you want to move in with me?”
“It’s not that I don’t—” I stopped myself. “I do.” I shifted lower in the seat. “I’ve just never done that with anyone I’ve dated before.”
“I’m not certain you’ve ever had a real relationship before.”
A valid point, but not one I was ready to admit. “It’s still a big step for me. I just need to marinate on it for a day or so.”
He nodded, and I could see how exhausted he was. My feelings of guilt, my depression, and struggle over the last few days… his had to be so much worse. And yet, he hadn’t had time to recover. He’d been in jail and confronting Hawk, working with police, and flying cross-country to see me.
I pressed a kiss gently against his forehead and he closed his eyes. “Okay,” I whispered.
His eyes opened. “Okay, what?”
“I marinated.” I smiled. “I’m ready.”
When we stepped off the plane, they were waiting. A string of FBI windbreakers, moving forward as if I was wanted for treason. I hesitated at the top of the plane’s steps, and Dario nudged me.
“It’s okay. I promise.”
I took the steps carefully and was met at the bottom by a man with a bushy mustache.
“Bell Hartley?” He eyed me carefully, examining my outfit as if it might hold evidence. While I had been wearing these jeans the night Gwen was killed, any evidence from them was probably in Laurent’s lint filter right now.
“Yes?”
“We have some questions for you.” he gestured behind him, to a dark navy eighteen-passenger. “If you could please come with us.”
“She’ll meet you at the field office,” Dario interrupted. “Or the station, wherever you prefer. With her attorney.”
The man’s gaze moved to mine, a question mark in them. I nodded.
“For your own safety, Ms. Hartley. We’d prefer you to ride with us—”
“No.” I shook my head. “I’d rather not.” I leaned against Dario, and his hand tightened on my waist.
The man studied both of us, then nodded.
My second experience in a police station went more smoothly than the first. It still took three hours, I still told the same stories four different times, and still had to be photographed and fingerprinted. But no one scoffed at me, and this time I had an attorney. She was an asshole, but she was my asshole, and half-way through the questioning, I relaxed, secure in the knowledge that she had everything under control. When I finally walked out, I leaned on Dario for physical and emotional support.
“How’d you do?” He wrapped his arms around me.
“She did great.” The attorney spoke, and Dario looked to me for confirmation.
I nodded. “It wasn’t bad. They weren’t happy that I skipped town, and I’ve been told not to do that again without telling them.”
“Fuck them,” Dario responded, leaning forward and giving me a kiss. “Let’s get you home. You look exhausted.”
Just the suggestion of sleep caused me to yawn. He chuckled, then reached out and shook the attorney’s hand. ‘Thanks.”
She nodded. “I’ll be in touch if anything changes.”
“Make sure it doesn’t.” He opened my car door and I sank into the seat.
“So... you’re staying here.” Meredith peered up at Dario as if he was an unknown specimen, one she planned to slice off a piece of and stick it under her microscope. I interrupted her inspection with a hug, the third one I’d given her since walking into the house.
“Yep.” Dario drawled out the word, looking too big in the living room. I gave Meredith a look of warning and headed for the bedroom.
“What?” She widened her eyes in innocence. “It’s just a little odd. Like that dork from Papa John’s sticking a Djorno in the oven.” She followed us down the hall without shame. “I mean, don’t you own, like, five hotels?”
“Something like that,” Dario responded.
“Exactly. And isn’t each hotel full of... I don’t know....” She looked up at the ceiling as if searching for a constellation. “Rooms? Beds? Places to put that ginormous head of yours?”
“Yo, yo, yoooooo.” Jackie wandered down the hall in SpongeBob SquarePants pajama bottoms and stopped short when she saw Dario. “Oh. Hel-lo.”
Dario cocked his head at me. “I’m rethinking the hotel.”
