Keep Her Safe(89)

I’ve never been shy, and yet I’m unable to look him in the eye again. “Don’t get used to it.” Meanwhile my body betrays me, pressing into his, reveling in his strength and warmth and protection.

“Hey.”

I sense the air between us shifting, a heady anticipation swelling. “What?”

His hand pushes against my chin, lifting it until our eyes meet again.

He says nothing, but he doesn’t need to. Everything he doesn’t say is clear. The hard swallow, the shaky inhale, the way his fingers curl around locks of my hair, while sweeping them off my forehead.

The way he leans in, painstakingly slowly.

His lips graze against mine in a timid way, as if he’s afraid of my response. Not until the second pass, when he presses a little harder, when he stalls there for a little longer, does it actually feel like a real kiss.

Not until the third pass do I meet his mouth with mine, reveling in the way our lips fit against each other in an unhurried, sensual dance, as his arm around me tightens, as his body coils into mine, his other hand finding my hip. His thumb grazes against my pelvic bone.

I could stop this.

Given what this FBI investigation might uncover about his mother and what she did to my father, I should stop this before it gets more complicated.

And yet my fingers claw their way up his chest, memorizing the feel of him, unable to stop myself.

Because nothing has felt more right than having Noah back in my life.

I’m so enthralled by his touch, his feel, his taste, that it takes a moment for the sound of a stream of liquid hitting the carpet to register. When it finally does, I’m breaking free and bolting upright in bed.

“No! Bad dog!”



* * *



“Where do you keep these?” I hold up the bottle of vinegar and rubber gloves.

“Under the sink is fine,” Noah says absently, his hands clasped behind his neck in a morning stretch that hasn’t quite finished, the hem of his T-shirt lifted to show a glimpse of his taut belly and the dark trail of hair.

He doesn’t notice me admiring his body, his gaze locked on the backyard where the sun crawls over the horizon of trees. “He’s a real asshole of a dog.”

“It’s our fault. He was telling us he had to go and we . . . weren’t listening.” I feel my cheeks flush.

“Yeah, but the way he was lookin’ at us while he was doing it, through that squinty little eye of his, I could almost hear him saying ‘fuck y’all!’?”

I chuckle at the exaggerated Texas twang in Noah’s voice. “It’s going to take a while for him to get used to domesticated life. He’s used to living under trailers.”

“He was outside when he did all that.” Noah waves a hand at the torn-up flower beds and overturned planters that we came home to yesterday—one of them resting at the bottom of the pool.

“Told you we shouldn’t leave him alone here. He doesn’t like being confined.”

“Looks pretty damn happy to me,” Noah mumbles, reaching over to hit a button on the coffeemaker.

I peer out the kitchen window in time to see my newfound pet charge a flock of those noisy iridescent blue-black birds, his jaws snapping with excitement. They squawk in protest as they scatter. “What are those birds, anyway?”

“Grackles.”

I grimace. “Sounds like something out of the underworld.”

He hands me a steaming cup of coffee—black, just how I like it. “Your dog left an underworld bird on the doormat last night. Headless.”

“A present for you,” I tease, inhaling the comforting aroma before taking my first sip.

Noah’s gaze travels down my bare legs. He grins.

“What?”

Stooping over, Noah slowly drags a fingertip along my thigh, beginning just above my knee and moving upward. My skin sprouts gooseflesh instantly. “You weren’t kidding when you said you highlighted everything important.”

I look down to see wobbly yellow lines from my highlighter all over my legs. And arms. And my new crisp white T-shirt. I groan. “I must have been rolling on it all night! Dammit!”

“I should have capped it,” he apologizes, as if this is his fault. “We can buy you more clothes today.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“I’ve got money—”

“No.” He’s already been generous enough.

Noah studies me as if deciding whether it’s worth the argument. “You’re about the same size as my mom was. There’s a whole room full of clothes upstairs. Take whatever you want.”

Jackie Marshall’s clothes? “Wouldn’t that be . . . weird?”

“They’re just clothes. She doesn’t need them anymore.” He heaps a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and heaves a sigh, the kind that tells me talking about his mother—even her clothes—isn’t as easy as he’s making it sound. “Seriously, take what you want. Your mom will fit into some of it, too. We can bring whatever you think she may like when we go to visit her.”

We’re going to visit her? “Thanks. I’ll . . . see.” The idea of pillaging a dead woman’s closet doesn’t sit well with me, but he’s right. They’re just clothes, and she doesn’t need them. I, on the other hand, covered in streaks of fluorescent yellow, do. I savor another mouthful of coffee. “What time is it?”