I want to tell her I don’tdokind. It’s not necessarily a lie, but it would be one right now.
“I’ll try to refrain,” I say.
She lets out a half-smile. “Good.”
The space between us shrinks. She leans a fraction more against the table, and the hem of her jacket shifts. A strand of hair has escaped her pin, and it rests against her forehead. I have the stupid, dangerous urge to tuck it back. To feel if it’s as soft as it looks. To see if her eyes widen when my fingers graze her skin.
I don’t move. I hold still like a man who has spent years learning the art of discipline.
I’ve never wanted to give in more.
Footsteps stomp down the hall, and Elena eases back just a fraction. We don’t jump apart because we haven’t technically moved together. But I feel the absence when she straightens, the little separation of heat from heat.
The door hinges squeal.
She lifts the file. “Mr. Conti,” she says, back to the script.
Roberto’s voice fills the room. “Beacon consent signed, raw data coming down. We done?”
Elena’s eyes stay on mine one half second longer than they should. Then she turns, crisp. “For now.”
I watch her go because I don’t know how not to. When the door finally closes and the latch takes, the room returns to glass andcarpet and government. The green light keeps blinking like it didn’t miss a thing.
Chapter Ten
Elena
The bathroom fills with steam until the mirror fogs and the tiles sweat. I sink lower in the tub and let the water climb my shoulders. Lavender trails behind the soap as I run the bar over my arm, then set it back in the dish and watch the suds slip away. I breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. My chest loosens a little. Not much.
I stay until the water cools past comfortable, then pull the plug. The sound of the drain is louder than usual. It leaves me chilled and bare under the overhead light, which I hate. I wrap myself in a towel and stand there another minute like I’m waiting for a verdict.
Blinds down. Always down. The marshals were very clear. The bathroom door is cracked just enough to see the dark line of the hallway. No shadows move. I step out and pad to the bedroom, towel tucked tight, skin prickling where the air hits it.
On the dresser: the same bottle I’ve kept for years. My favorite lotion—the one I don’t use very often. It’s clean and sweet, with a hint of vanilla that complements the lavender perfectly.
I sit on the edge of the bed with its freshly washed sheets and smooth it into my calves, my thighs, my stomach. The routine helps, like I can rub the day out of me if I keep going. I work my shoulders last, thumbs digging into the knots at my neck. It doesn’t solve anything, but it’s something I can control.
I should be exhausted. I was awake at 2:00 this morning, and I haven’t stopped for a moment since.
But I’m energized. There’s a tingling under my skin that’s making me jump. My heart is pounding, and I can feel it everywhere.
I cross to my dresser and pull open a drawer. I dig down beneath the practical—the bras and underwear that sit beneath my suits day after day.
What I pull out isn’t practical. It’s silky and lacy. Dark, thin straps. It’s not for sleep. It’s for reminding myself I’m a woman underneath the armor I wear every day.
I pull it over my head, and the fabric slips down my spine like a whispered secret. The hem skims mid-thigh. It fits. It makes me stand up straighter, arch my back. Makes me aware of every goosebump coming alive on my skin.
I don’t know why my hands are shaking.
I walk to the kitchen and open a bottle to rest. It makes a soft pop that sounds loud in the quiet apartment. I pour a glass, not full, and lean on the counter while I take the first sip. The wine is cherry and smoke. It warms my mouth, then my chest. It should be enough to take the edge off.
It isn’t.
I tell myself I’m doing all this because I need a bath and I need to sleep. Because a hot soak and clean sheets are good choices after a long, tiring day. Because lotion helps dry skin, and the nightgown is perfect for a warm night like this. Because a glass of wine is reasonable for a woman who spent the day arguing over GPS points and ankle monitors and whether a dot on a map deserves to ruin a man’s life.
I tell myself all that and hear the wordbullshitslide through my mind.
I turn off the kitchen light, glass in one hand, bottle in the other, and walk back through my dark apartment, not turning on any lights.
