“I’m trying to decide how mad I am at you,” Nick announced, kicking back and putting his feet up.
“No, you’re not. You got over it an hour ago,” she shot back blandly, clicking a pen and scribbling something on a sticky note.
Dating a psychic had its upsides. He didn’t have to talk about his feelings because his girlfriend already knew what they were.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Scanning last week’s paperwork into the server and shredding the ones that don’t require physical copies.”
It turned him on when she organized shit for him. One of the reasons his office had burnt to the ground so quickly was the fact that he’d been sitting on two year’s worth of paperwork that he never got around to filing.
He stood and wound his way through ottomans and boxes labeled “Doll Heads” and “Goose Figurines” to get to her.
He leaned against the corner of her desk and stretched his legs out.
“I don’t like you getting involved in another case,” he said.
She looked at him. Finally. And his heart did that idiotic little tap dance it always did when those big, brown eyes locked on to him.
“Really? Gee. Why didn’t you say something when I was clinging to your back trying to pull you off your friend?”
The tone of her voice had his blood racing south well above the legal speed limit. The woman made sarcasm sexy.
“Weber’s not my friend,” he insisted stubbornly.
“He saved both our lives,” she reminded him.
“He didn’t save our lives. He aided in our continued survival,” he hedged.
“Look, I’m not excited about the idea of getting involved either—”
“Good. Don’t. Let’s go have sex.”
She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the way her gaze skimmed over his crotch.
“I’m not excited about it,” she continued. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do something. A woman is dead.”
“And you’re alive. I’d like to keep it that way.”
She sighed and pushed away from her computer, coming to stand between his outstretched legs. He liked when she came close enough for him to reach out and grab her, to reassure himself she was real and breathing and his.
Nick reeled her in so she was standing between his thighs.
The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered temptingly.
“Thorn, I almost lost you.” His fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt and traced the round, pink scar that still starred in his nightmares.
She bit her lip, then looped her arms around his neck. “Refresh my memory. Do all of your investigations go that way?”
He ran his hand through her thick brown hair, brushing it back from her face.
“No.”
“Then there’s no reason to think that Kellen’s case will either,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the incessant hammering.
“You don’t even want to do it. Why the hell are you even considering it?” he demanded.
Nick Santiago lived his life according to a succinct code of conduct.
