Beautiful Redemption (The Maddox Brothers, #2)(35)

“Did you tell her about Camille?” Sawyer asked.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and my mouth suddenly felt parched. I gulped the last of the red liquid in my glass.

Thomas bared his teeth and squinted his eyes, looking regretful. “Did you tell Tessa about that rash?”

Sawyer nearly choked on his wine. Tessa tried to think of something to say but failed, and after a few bounces, she retreated to the kitchen.

“Why? Why are you such an *?” Sawyer said.

Thomas chuckled, and I fought a smile but lost, giggling into my water glass.

Sawyer began to laugh, too, and he shook his head before slathering his slice of pita with hummus. “Well played, Maddox. Well played.”

Thomas looked up at me from under his brow. “How are you getting home, Liis?”

“You’re driving me.”

He nodded once. “I didn’t want to assume, but I’m glad you agree.”





“THANK YOU,” I said quietly.

I tried not to look at the sliver of beautifully tanned skin between Thomas’s belt and the bottom hem of his white T-shirt. He was hanging the painting, one of the first things I’d purchased after training. It was a canvas print, wrapped around wood, and it was too heavy to be wall decor.

“It’s creepy as hell,” Thomas said, stepping off my dining room chair onto the carpet.

“It’s a Yamamoto Takato. He’s my favorite Japanese modern artist.”

“Who are they?” Thomas asked, referring to the two sisters on the painting.

They were resting outside at night. One sister was looking on, quietly enjoying whatever mischief was happening before them. The other was looking back at Thomas and me, sullen and bored.

“Spectators. Listeners. Like us.”

He looked unimpressed. “They’re weird.”

I crossed my arms and smiled, happy that they were finally in their place. “He’s brilliant. You should see the rest of his work. They’re tame in comparison.”

His expression told me he didn’t approve of this new piece of information.

I lifted my chin. “I like them.”

Thomas took in a breath, shook his head, and sighed. “Whatever frosts your cookies. I guess I’ll, uh…head out.”

“Thanks for taking me home. Thanks for the anchor. Thanks for hanging the girls.”

“The girls?”

I shrugged. “They don’t have names.”

“Because they’re not real.”

“They’re real to me.”

Thomas picked up the chair and returned it to the table, but he gripped the top, leaning over a bit. “Speaking of things that aren’t real…I’ve been trying to think of a way to talk to you about certain aspects of the trip.”

“Which ones?”

He stood up and walked toward me, leaning down just inches from my face, slightly turning his head.

I pulled away. “What are you doing?”

He backed off, satisfied. “Seeing what you would do. I was right to bring this up now. If I don’t show affection, they’ll know something is up. You can’t pull away from me like that.”

“I won’t.”

“Really? That wasn’t a knee-jerk reaction just then?”

“Yes…but I’ve let you kiss me before.”

“When you were drunk,” Thomas said with a smirk. He walked to the middle of the room and sat on my couch like he owned the place. “That doesn’t count.”

I followed him, watched him for a moment, and then sat on his right, leaving not even air between us. I nuzzled my cheek against his chest and slid my hand across his rigid abdomen before digging my fingers into his left side, just enough so that my arm stayed in place.

My entire body relaxed, and I crossed my right leg over my left, letting my calf overlap his knee so that every part of me was at least a little bit draped over him. I cuddled up against him with a smile because Thomas Maddox—the astute, always-in-control Special Agent—was as still as a statue, his heart thundering in his chest.

“I’m not the one who needs practice,” I said with a grin. I closed my eyes.

I felt his muscles ease, and he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, letting his chin rest on top of my head. He let all the air escape from his lungs, and it seemed like a long time before he took another breath.

We stayed that way, without anywhere to be, listening to the quietness of my condo and the noise from the street. Tires still sloshed against the wet asphalt, horns honked, doors from cars slammed. Once in a while, a person would shout, car brakes would whine, and a dog would bark.

Inside, sitting with Thomas—on the very couch we’d christened the night we met—felt like an alternate universe.

“This is nice,” he said finally.

“Nice?” I was mildly offended. I thought it felt amazing. No one had held me that way since Jackson in Chicago, and even then, it hadn’t felt like this.

I didn’t think that I would miss someone touching me, especially when I hadn’t appreciated Jackson’s affection before. But being without it for less than a month had made me feel lonely, and maybe even a little depressed. That was typical for anyone, I imagined, but I was sure that the sadness wouldn’t have come so strong and so soon had I not experienced Thomas’s hands on me during my first night in San Diego. I’d had to miss them every day after that.