Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(83)

“Plumbing issues.”

I pick away quietly at the sandwich, not believing his answer but having no good reason to question it openly. Plus, that means Sebastian’s guaranteed to be in my bed for the next few nights. Win-win.

The light ahead turns yellow. I’m expecting Sebastian to stop, because there’s plenty of time. Instead he slams his foot on the gas and the engine roars as it kicks into high gear. I nearly choke on my mouthful of Dr Pepper as we sail through the intersection on a red light, earning blasts of angry horns as Sebastian swerves around a turning car.

Not until we’ve slowed down does he ask, “Are you okay?”

I turn to glare at him. “I’m fantastic.”

His steely look breaks for just a second with a tiny smirk, but he doesn’t say anything else.

I’m a deep sleeper. Once I’m out, I’m out for the night. But I’m not used to sharing a bed with anyone, or having anyone in my room while I sleep, period. I guess that’s why I keep waking up through the night. I’m usually draped across Sebastian’s body—an arm here, a leg there. This bed is only a double, and while I’m small, Sebastian takes up well over half, lying on his back.

But tonight, when my eyes crack open at three a.m., Sebastian isn’t even lying beside me. He’s settled in front of the window on the wooden chair that normally sits in the corner—a creaky, narrow antique that groans under the slightest weight—with one foot resting on the windowsill, an arm draped over his knee. His hard gaze is locked on the street beyond the billowy white eyelet lace curtain where he has pushed it aside.

I remain still and study him—his long muscular body, the faint streetlight streaming in highlighting the curves and hard edges. He’s pulled on his briefs, much to my dismay, as I would have had a great view of all of him from this angle. As it is, I can still see my detailed work on his torso, which I find myself loving more and more each time he lets me tend to it.

“I know you’re awake.”

My heart jumps at the sound of his deep voice cutting into the silence, but then I smile. “How do you know?”

“Your breathing changed.”

“You’ve been listening to me breathe? Why?”

“Because I like the sound of it. It’s peaceful.”

He hasn’t turned from the window yet, so I continue my unabashed study of him. “How do you stay in such great shape?”

“I work out almost every day.”

“You haven’t the last couple of days.”

“No.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “I’ve been too busy.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to the mess at the house, or the nights in this bed. I’ll assume both.

My gaze wanders down. He has a runner’s legs and I’m guessing he’s fast. “What’s that scar on your thigh?” I’ve noticed he protects his left leg whenever we’re together, putting more weight on his right side. It looks like it might have been painful.

His hand slides over it, his jaw tensing a touch. He doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t push, simply watching him.

“Bullet wound.”

Sebastian’s been shot? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised given his history and his career—and all the scars on him—but . . . I know skin and scarring, and that one is fresh.

The idea of Sebastian being shot recently ties my stomach up in knots.

“While you were working?” I assume so, given his job.

“Yes.”

“Is your client okay?” Maybe not. Maybe this is why he’s taking time off.

He nods, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m sure he can read. “Well, that’s good.” So maybe he took a bullet for the person. That would be commendable. I wonder when it happened and where. Was it in the news? I should pay more attention to the news.

“Does that happen a lot? You getting hurt?”

“Not a lot. Occasionally.”

“Do you love your job?” He must. Why else would you do this?

“Yes and no.”

I wait, watching him, hoping he’ll elaborate.

“I’m really good at what I do.”

“I imagine so.” I’ve felt a thousand times safer since Sebastian stepped into my life, and he’s not even my bodyguard. Officially, anyway. With the amount of sex we’ve been having, I may as well be claiming it as payment, all joking aside. Then again, I’m benefiting from it as much as he is.

“When do you not love it?”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “When I have to do things in order to protect innocent people. Things that a lot of people may not approve of. That may scare them.”

I try to hide my frown but I fail. He’s not looking at me, but I’m sure he saw it. He seems to see everything. What kind of things would a bodyguard possibly do, besides fire back? I bite back the question before it slips out, because my instincts tell me he’ll tell me if he wants to, when he’s ready. He’s simply testing the waters with me right now, I gather. As in, Would Ivy approve? Would Ivy be scared?

I’m not afraid of Sebastian. The first day he strolled into the shop, I was. But since then, he’s been this calm, quiet, reliable safety net for me. He operates with discipline and control and, my gut says, by a moral code. And somewhere in the mix of chaos, I think I’ve started developing real feelings for him.