“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
That heat encompassed her back again, and the same long arm appeared in front of her, holding a small, modern device.
“A steamer?”
“Yes.”
She gulped at the rumble of his voice so close to her ear. She knew better than to turn around. “I didn’t know SEALs care so much about wrinkles.”
Even his snort was masculine enough to make her skin prickle. “It isn’t mine.”
She turned her head slowly. “Whose is it?”
“Kennedy gave it to me for you.” He circled to stand in her line of sight.
The name hit a strange place in her chest—part curiosity, part resentment. She kept her voice even. “Is Kennedy your girlfriend?”
His eyes sharpened, as if he liked the question more than he should. “No.”
A beat passed.
“She’s Dante’s girl.” He captured her gaze. “I’m single.”
Her stomach tightened. She wished he hadn’t said that.
It complicated things, blurred lines they needed to keep crisp and clean.
She forced her attention back to the clothes. “I didn’t ask for your relationship status.”
“You asked if she was mine. I call that asking my status.”
She hated that her face warmed, that her body betrayed her not once or twice but three timestoday.
She turned the steamer on and held it over the blouse, watching the wrinkles soften, thinking about the fact that someone she barely knew—Kennedy—had sent the item for a virtual stranger.
Opal’s throat tightened as she kept working on the wrinkles. “You people do that? Just…send things.”
Sinner leaned against the dresser, arms folded loosely across his muscled chest, but the room was small enough that she felt like he was invading her space.
“We look out for each other,” he said.
“There’s no competition on the team? On base?”
“What do you mean?”
“People stepping on others to get to the top.”
Understanding crossed his rugged features. “We’re Blackout, not the FBI.”
He watched her for a long moment, then moved toward his bag, which meant he brushed against her as he passed. He started pulling things out one by one. She tried to ignore him, crowding into a smaller space to avoid touching, but that wasn’t possible as he stacked items on the bed.
Toiletries. Their forearms touched.
A travel-size bottle of lotion. He bumped her shoulder.
A pack of mints. His thigh stroked along the length of hers.
A small first-aid kit. Their hips bumped. Just once. But it was enough for her body to react with a bloom of heat spreading through her chest.
