“You gonna stand there all day or help me make breakfast?” she calls over her shoulder.
I exhale through my nose. “I’m coming.”
We cook together. She cracks eggs while I fry bacon. Our elbows brush. She bumps her hip against mine on purpose when she reaches for the salt. I bump back, maybe a little harder than necessary because of frustration, and she laughs, bright and unguarded.
“You’re terrible at sharing counter space,” she teases.
“You’re terrible at staying out of my way.”
She turns, presses her back to the counter so we’re face-to-face, inches apart. “Maybe I like being in your way.”
My hands flex at my sides. I want to cage her there, palms on either side of her hips, body pinning hers. Instead, I reach past her for the spatula, deliberately letting my arm brush the side of her breast.
She sucks in a breath.
I pretend I don’t notice.
We eat on the kitchen island. She sits on the stool next to mine, close enough that her knee rests against my thigh the whole time. Every time she leans to grab the salt or the pepper, her shoulder presses into mine. Every time she licks butter off her thumb, I have to look away.
After breakfast, we move to the table for work.
We’re making progress. Mae sent another batch of bank transfer records pulled from a subpoenaed account, emails between Ramsey’s assistant and Tate’s private account, andtimestamps that line up with the zoning approvals like clockwork. It’s stronger proof. Enough to start building the case for real.
Megan’s eyes light up when she sees the new files. She leans over my shoulder, hair brushing my cheek, her breath warm on my neck.
“Look at this,” she whispers, finger tracing a wire transfer. “Two hundred thousand, same day the variance was approved. They didn’t even try to hide it.”
I nod. “Sloppy. Arrogant.”
She turns her head. Our faces are so close I can count her eyelashes. “We’ve got them.”
“We do.”
She smiles—slow, triumphant, beautiful.
I want to kiss her, but I don’t.
We work through the afternoon.
Megan curls up on the couch with a legal pad, sketching timelines, muttering to herself. I sit at the table, pretending to read emails, but I’m watching her. The way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking. The way she tucks a curl behind her ear. The way she looks peaceful, focused, alive.
I’m falling hard.
Movie night is my idea.
“Break,” I say around 8 p.m. “We’ve been at this for twelve hours. Brain needs a reset.”
She raises a brow. “What are you suggesting?”
“I have all the streaming services. You can pick a movie or a television show to watch.”
Her smile is slow. “Scandalous. Bedroom or living room?”
I shrug. “Couch is more comfortable.”
She picks an old Western, something with John Wayne. I don’t care what it is. I care that she’s sitting next to me, legs tucked under her, head eventually dropping to my shoulder.
I freeze.
