Hating his downcast face, I pretend there aren’t a million theories swirling in my head when he asks if I have any more questions. My response isn’t a lie. I merely need time to process everything.
“When you have any?—”
“You’ll be the first I ask,” I interrupt, aware this isn’t a case I can take to anyone else.
Grayson’s grin makes me as giddy as the scent of my favorite body wash on his skin, and then he triples the buzz by asking if I’m ready for dessert.
I perk up like a pig staring at a full trough, doubling his grin.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” He drops his eyes to the files spread across the couch. “While I get dessert, you should pack up.”
I’m shocked he’s calling it a night so early in the evening. He usually works until exhaustion forces him to rest.
I realize I have the situation wrong when he murmurs, “Your shirt wore more gravy after dinner than your plate,” as he moseys to the kitchen.
His slow pace quickens when I snatch up the water bottle, which my hand is rarely without, and hook it in his direction. His laughter rumbling out of the poky kitchen makes dessert unnecessary. It is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, and it could give any red-blooded woman a toothache.
Dessert accompanies two hours of conversation, multiple unexpected parcels of laughter, and a handful of awkward stare-offs that double the chemistry I’ve always felt tethering me to Grayson. It’s not a date—how could it be when Grayson’s participation is forced?—but it is the closest thing I’ve felt to a date in well over a decade. I’ve smiled, laughed, swooned, and pressed my thighs together more times than I can count. That’s a record—even before Kendall went missing.
Although it’s been fun and I’d be pleased for it to continue, I once again prioritize the needs of others over my own. Since I know he won’t contemplate sleep until he puts at least three hours into Cameron’s case, I need to be the bigger person.
As I stand, I say, “I know this is the pot calling the kettle black, but try to get some sleep tonight.” I turn to face Grayson as he slowly rises to his feet. He looks as disappointed as I feel that our impromptu couch session is over.Or perhaps he’s relieved?I’ve struggled to read his prompts this past week, and although it is a cheap shot, I blame my out-of-whack hormones. “You won’t fool anyone tomorrow with a first-time father-to-be ruse if you look like you’ve already cut your teeth with a newborn.”
I stop gathering the plates smeared with remnants of the dessert we shared when Grayson murmurs, “I’m not attending any of the classes tomorrow.” A lie as evident as the one I told at the start of our evening beams from his eyes when he locks them with mine. “I figured my skills would be better utilized here than on the field.”
What he meant to say is that he doesn’t trust anyone else to keep my ass planted on the couch or the bed as well as he has over the past thirty-six-plus hours.
Even though he’s babying me, I’m not peeved. I love his protective side and how well I’ve been sheltered under it since he arrived.
He follows me into the kitchen, where I place the plates into the dishwasher. “Will you have the same profiling abilities through a monitor as you would in person?”
Sparks of the man I’ve been obsessed with for over a decade shine bright when he smirks. “I have above-average stats. A monitor can prevent you from putting actions into play you’re not sure aren’t one-sided, but it doesn’t make the truth any less obvious.” I feel like he’s talking more about themany conversations we’ve had over the net than the case we’re working on.
When I remain frozen in the kitchen, too confused to move, he tracks the backs of his fingers down my cheek like he did when I cried. He is barely touching me, but my body responds as if he’s strumming my clit with his tongue. His basic touch floods my veins with lust and has me wondering if there’s more truth to women being extra horny in the last trimester of pregnancy than what I’ve read.
My body hasn’t stopped buzzing with anticipation all day.
I call myself an idiot when Grayson pulls his hand away from my face a second before he blows the eyelash he caught on my cheek off his index finger. It floats in the minuscule portion of air between us before it lands on his big toe.
I’m one hundred percent convinced that the increase in blood flow during pregnancy has gathered in one region of my body when I admire the sexiness of his bare feet.
Is anything about this man ugly?
“Macy…” Grayson murmurs, drawing my focus away from his hairless toes.
My limbs feel the weight of concrete, but it is for an entirely different reason than a baby’s head squashing nerves I had no clue I had. It is from the way Grayson murmured my name. It was hot and virile, like the sweetness of our dessert is still clinging to his tonsils.
“Yeah.” I swallow to soothe my suddenly parched throat before peering up at him.
Grayson’s wolfish smirk when he spots my perplexed expression makes desire crackle through me like a glow stick being activated. Its effect is bright and immediate, and it creeps up my neck and across my cheeks as fast as it dilates my eyes. “I said goodnight.”
“Oh. Um… night.”
Although I bid him goodnight with both words and a smile, my feet remain rooted. A hormone imbalance could have me mistaking the tension crackling in the air, as it has multiple times today, yet it is so white-hot that sweat beads on my nape.
It also proves that what Grayson said is factual. Whether through a monitor or in person, the truth can’t be hidden from a skilled profiler. I want him, badly. I just don’t know how to be a woman and an agent at the same time, and I’m too scared to attempt a thorough study of my theory on a man way out of my league.
“Huh?” I murmur, still in a trance from how good my shampoo smells on his skin when Grayson repeats my name.
