“Yes, you do.” He stepped forward. His thumb brushed her cheek. “You could trust me to take care of you.”
“And do what—move in with you?” she joked, keeping it light, but it was awkward. “That’s a little fast, don’t you think?”
“You obviously do.” He didn’t push. “Let’s not make any decisions while emotions are high.” He kissed her—smoldering, but gentler than before. A promise, not a demand. “Tomorrow, we’ll grab some lunch after your shift and talk more.”
He wasn’t asking. He was in dom mode again.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, with a mock salute.
“‘Sir’ sounds almost as good as Alec,” he murmured, hauling her close with a hand wound in her hair. He gave it a little tug—a light reprimand as he warned, “I can do without the sarcasm, though.”
He lips claimed hers once more—slow, hot, dizzying—and a spark raced through her.
Tenderness was only nice, but pulling her hair made her tingle? She was seriously messed up.
“Stop thinking so much,” he whispered against her lips. “Just go with it.”
It was unsettling that he’d read her mind again, then it dawned on her. “The tell?”
“Yeah.” His chuckle rumbled through her, sending delicious shivers down her spine. His thumb stroked her cheek, fingers still warm at the nape of her neck. “Rest well, sweetheart.”
After a final kiss and a look that sent her heart tripping, he left. Emily locked the door, leaned her forehead against the cool wood, and exhaled a long breath. The night had been intense—emotionally, physically, unexpectedly. The scene with Alec still pulsed under her skin.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she was thinking too much. What was wrong with letting her baser instincts—and Alec—take the lead?
After all, living in her head all these years hadn’t gotten her anywhere.
Chapter 13
Six hours later, running on fumes, Alec dragged into headquarters, clutching a jumbo Americano with an extra shot. The text about the 8 a.m. meeting had come while driving home from Emily’s. He should’ve just crashed in the downtime room. Instead, he’d grumbled every colorful expletive he knew, already calculating it would be after two before his head hit the pillow. He needed a solid seven hours, or he turned into a bear. The fact that someone Emily’s size could grind out this pace—and had for years—made him feel like a whiny putz.
In the conference room, he flopped into the first empty chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. So far, the espresso hadn’t done jack.
He couldn’t stop replaying last night—the good, the bad, and the really ugly. He hadn’t expected to find Emily at the club, let alone scene with her. Then, he’d gone full dumbass and asked Rhys to kiss her. What the hell had he been thinking?
Maybe it was the fatigue. Or maybe his brain was still scrambled from that pistol grip to the head a few months back. Either way, he’d crossed a line—with her, and with his own rules.
Rafe Maddox and Boone Keller, two of Dev’s newer hires, slogged in behind him, both looking as bleary-eyed as he felt. Rafe was quiet as ever, the pale scar along his cheekbone catching the light as he lifted his chin in greeting. Boone, muttering about needing a vat of black coffee, sank heavily into a chair, his battered leather jacket creaking as he sat.
Dev entered last and shut the door behind him.
Leland stretched and grumbled, “What’s with the ungodly hour? My sheets didn’t have time to get warm before my alarm went off.”
“I had a late night too,” Dev replied. “Quit griping.”
“Easy for you to say. You only had to walk upstairs to bed.”
“We’ve got guest rooms,” the boss said dryly. “You can always stay the night.”
“Then you’d have someone to tuck you in, old man,” Boone said in his Southern drawl, prompting a ripple of chuckles around the table. Except forLeland, who shot him a scowl that would’ve intimidated lesser men. Nick Devlin didn’t hire lesser men. Boone just grinned wider.
“Let’s get to it. We’ve got another missing girl,” Dev said, turning the room somber. “She’s high profile. Queue it up, Callan.”
At the other end of the long table sat Callan Ritchie, their resident IT savant. Lean and broad-shouldered, with tousled dark hair and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His hoodie hung half zipped over a rumpled tee; shadows under his eyes told the story of several sleepless nights. But his fingers still flew across the keyboard as if he was born to it.
The image of a pretty, college-age blonde appeared on screen a moment later.
“Beth Ann Pierce,” Callan began. “Age twenty. Sophomore at the U. Only daughter of Senator Warren Pierce. Last seen on Saturday leaving work. She hasn’t shown up for classes all week. Her roommate hasn’t heard from her. No social media posts in four days, which is highly unusual.”
