She takes a step toward me, her shoulders square and her back straight, and smirks as she looks over my face. “It doesn’t surprise me that the big, bad FBI guy likes his women submissive. Too much of a challenge would be a threat to your ego.” Her eyes flick to my pants and back up as she lifts an eyebrow. “It might make you feel small.”
Fuck me, she’s going to make me lose my shit. Cupping my mouth and chin with my hand to stop myself from saying anything I might regret. I count to ten in my head as those hazel eyes hold mine fucking captive like she’s fucking daring me to say something.
Pulling my palm down my chin, I take a deep breath. “Here’s how it’s going to be. You don’t go anywhere without me. If you want to go somewhere, let me know ahead of time and I’ll make arrangements. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. And for fuck’s sake, be more aware of your surroundings.”
The smirk turns into a smile, and I remember how those plump lips felt pressed against mine last night. Then she wrinkles her nose like an annoying teenager. “You’re bossy.”
“I’m doing my job.” I grind out between clenched teeth.
All humor in her eyes drains away, but the smile stays on her face. “Okay. Well, special agent, good luck with all that.”
What does that mean?
Holding my arms out to my sides in question, I wait for her to elaborate.
Without another word, she spins on her toes, her hair spinning around her like a tornado, and walks to a short hallway, her little ass swaying the entire way, and disappears around the corner and shuts a door.
I don’t think she’s coming back.
Tearing my eyes away from the hallway, I look around the cabin for the first time. I’m surrounded by canvases of all different sizes. Some have abstract paintings on them, and some have landscapes, but all of them are good. I don’t know much about art, but she’s good.
When I looked her up, I found her website where she sells her art. She has a considerable following.
On the other side of a narrow counter is the small kitchen with a round table big enough for two next to the window, and on the opposite wall of the kitchen is a door to a room that’s almost all windows. There are two easels in the room, both with canvases on them, the paintings unfinished.
There are paint, paintbrushes, and various art supplies everywhere. A few smocks covered in splotches and streaks of paint are hanging by the door.
The sun has almost completely gone down, and there is barely any light in the room, but in the corner on a short shelf are a small, dim lamp and a Bluetooth speaker. What grabs my attention is a book sitting next to the speaker, and my curiosity pulls me over to see what it is.
The Awakening by Kate Chopin - a classic. I wonder if she’s even read it. I’m surprised, but not, at the same time. It kind of seems fitting, a difficult woman reading about another difficult woman.
As I walk back through the kitchen, all signs point toward the fact that she stays in this cabin. This is her space, and I’m snooping.
Is she staying the night here?
I had no idea when I left the house to follow her, she would stay here, all my things are in the big house. There’s no fucking way I’m leaving her here to go get them. She might disappear into the woods like a fucking sprite just to spite me.
There’s a plush leather couch and a chair in the living room. The couch has a throw pillow on one side and a blanket folded up on the back. Looks like that’s my bed for the night.
I’m fucking tired after my night last night, so I grab the blanket and put the pillow on the end of the couch that lets me see the hallway. Tucking my gun under the pillow, I throw my arm over my head. As I close my eyes, the soft scent of jasmine floats around me from the pillow, and I force myself not to think about the little spitfire down the hall.
The screeching beep of a coffee maker wakes me up with a start, the smell of the fresh brew is in the air. The cabin is still dark, and there is just a hint of sunrise through the sheer curtains on the windows. My back is aching from tossing on this couch all night.
Sitting on the edge of the couch cushion, I scrub my hands over my head and down my face. Soft, low music is coming from the room on the other side of the kitchen.
Stepping up to the doorway, I see Ms. Harlow in a pair of skintight yoga shorts that barely cover her ass and an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one of her narrow shoulders but is cut off above her belly button. Her hair is twisted into a big blond pile on her head, and she’s barefoot.
My morning wood just stood up and took notice, and I adjust to try and hide it.
Her back is to me as she looks out one of the big windows toward the sunrise. In one hand is a paintbrush moving across a canvas in smooth strokes. The abstract looks like the sunrise is breaking through a black hole, and I wonder if that is her frame of mind.
Without acknowledging me, she continues what she’s doing. “I can never get the colors just right. When I was in college, one of my art professors challenged me to capture the colors of the sunrise. At the time, I laughed at him because it sounded so ridiculously easy, but I’ve been trying ever since.”
Looking at the skyline to the east through the floor to ceiling windows, I take note of the colors streaming across the sky and look back at her canvas. “It’s close.”
She huffs a laugh and shakes her head like I just insulted her. “What?”
“Is that what you told your boss when I fucked up your night and the bad guys got away?” She pauses and holds the brush in midair as she looks out the window again. “Was he okay with you telling him, ‘we didn’t get them, but it was close.’?” She sighs and mixes two colors. “How long will you be here again?”
