But then he blinked and stepped back. “Why don’t you show me this floorboard?”
She swallowed hard. “This way.”
She led him down the hall. When they stepped into Scarlett’s bedroom, Holden crouched near her tools. Although, she used the term “tools” very loosely. There was a scraper, a piece of sandpaper, and a bottle of wood filler. Holden’s tool kit looked a bit more extensive.
He ran his finger over the large split in the floorboard before glancing at her stuff again. “You were going to use wood filler?”
“No, I’mgoingto use wood filler, as per YouTube telling me to.”
He gave her an “I don’t think so” smile. “This crack is too deep for wood filler. You need epoxy resin.”
“Oh. Um, okay. I’ll need to go back to the hardware store and—”
“I’ve got it in my toolbox.” And without another word, he lifted her scraper and just started working, beginning where she’d left off but making it look a heck of a lot easier.
Holden could feelClara’s eyes on him as he worked. She’d left the room a couple of times in the last hour but always returned after a few minutes, sometimes just standing in the doorway. Other times sitting on Scarlett’s bed and chatting.
He cleared his throat and glanced up. “So, this is Scarlett’s room?”
“Yeah. She’s been asking me to get the floorboard fixed for a while. It squeaks whenever she steps on it.”
“Doesn’t sound like a huge problem.”
Clara lifted a shoulder. “I like to think she doesn’t want to wake me when she gets home late, but I’m not really sure if she cares about me that much.”
“Does she get home late a lot?”
“A lot a lot. She’s barely here. Her job is her life.”
“What does she do?”
“Investigative reporter. You’ll never see her without her phone or laptop in hand.”
He nodded, needing to physically stop himself from glancing at her for the hundredth damn time. But fuck, she looked good in his sweatshirt. There was something about her wearing his clothing that made him want to be possessive as hell.
But she wasn’t his, so that was a stupid thought.
“Can I ask you something?”
He nodded. “Anything.”
“Do you think it’s suspicious for someone to have a fake ID?”
He stopped, his biceps contracting before he looked up. “Yes.” A big fucking yes. “Who has a fake ID?”
“No one. It’s just a general question.”
She was lying. He’d worked out over the years that when she lied, she fidgeted. And right now, she was messing with a thread at the bottom of the sweatshirt.
“A fake ID means someone’s trying to do something without their identity being revealed,” Holden pushed.
She nodded quickly. “I thought so too.”
What was she not telling him?
“We had to use fake IDs during missions sometimes,” he said, as he started applying the epoxy. “It was always to dosomething so dangerous that being caught meant putting our lives and the lives of our loved ones in jeopardy.”
Clara’s brows furrowed. “I don’t like the idea of you being in danger.”
