Fuck. Still nothing.
“Let me know if you need anything.”
For some reason, I really want her to open the door. I want to see her face, and I want to make sure she’s okay. I’ve never objectified women, and I don’t like men who do, and for some reason it’s important that she doesn’t thinkIthink it’s okay.
But there’s no sound at all, not even the rustle of blankets or movement on the mattress. There’s just silence. There’s a little niggle in my head wondering if she’s actually in there, but if she had gone out the window, I would have got a notification on my phone when she lifted the pane.
“Okay, well, like I said, I apologize if you were made to feel uncomfortable today, it won’t happen again.” Pause. “Okay, goodnight, then.”
Will she say it back?
After another minute, I turn away from the door to lock up and get ready for bed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KINLEY
THE UNUSUALstillness around me pulls me out of a light sleep, one that was full of tossing and turning all night. Usually the birds wake me up, or the sounds of people moving around downstairs, then I remember I’m not at home. Rolling over onto my back, I toss my arm over my head and look at the colorful room.
In the light of the early morning sun, the cream and tangerine colors all around me are even brighter than they were yesterday. I noticed when I was looking around Agent Abbot’s house yesterday that natural wood and bright colors are the theme of the house.
Natural wood is a staple throughout the house, even around the windows and doors, but I think that might have helped me not to be so homesick. The difference is that everything at my house is leather, patchwork and NativeAmerican, but his house seems to have a Latin feel with the bright colors, tapestries and ceramic tiles in the kitchen.
Fixing my eyes on the ceiling, my anger from the day before grips me again.
I’m within my rights to call my brothers and tell them to come get me. Abbot brought me here with a promise to protect me, but I think being leered at and catcalled by the very men he says I should trust is a big fat fail.
He tried to apologize last night, but I think he deserved to be ignored. I felt a little guilty when I ignored Swan, because he seems to be a nice guy, probably too nice for his profession, but I didn’t feel bad about ignoring Abbot.
I have to admit, when I heard him on the conference call calling someone a motherfucker because of the catcall, I got a little hot. In all honesty, that’s the only thing that stopped me from borrowing Swan’s phone to call Mason on the spot. I just wish I could have seen it.
Remembering that I don’t have my phone, I don’t know what time it is. Abbot said he would get me a burner or something. I need to ask about that today. Since I didn’t have dinner last night, I’m starving.
Crossing the hall to use the bathroom, I glance in the mirror, and my hair looks like a bird’s nest, falling in tangles around my arms, so I pile it on top of my head and pull the hair tie off my wrist to hold it up. There. Presentable.
My skimpy, form-fitting, pink sleep tank with tiny blue flowers on it and short, purple sleep shorts are a little skimpy, but it serves him right. If I have to feel uncomfortable because of ‘his men’, then he needs to feel a little uncomfortable, too. If he’s even here.
The house is quiet as I pad barefoot down the hall, but when I round the corner to the kitchen, I stop in my tracks. Abbot is at the kitchen sink in a pair of running shorts and no shirt. His back is to me as he looks out the window over thesink while drinking a glass of water.
Sweat is making his olive-toned skin glisten. I’ve never seen a more perfect muscular specimen, and I’ve seen my fair share when my brothers bring military friends and teams to our house.
One hand is fisted on the edge of the counter while the other holds the glass that has his head tipped back, and I swear his back makes a perfect, rugged, sexy V to his narrow waist. My nipples pucker like they’ve just been tweaked by the most gorgeous man alive.
I’ve never wanted to be a glass of water so bad.
I think he can feel my presence behind him because the muscles across his shoulders go taut, and he lowers his glass to turn his head and then his body in my direction.
Wiping the stare of contentment off my face before he sees, I plaster on my mask of indifference before I clear my throat.
He freezes when his eyes land on me. His gaze quickly moves down my body, pausing for a nanosecond on my nipples poking the thin material covering them, before averting his eyes to set his glass in the sink.
But I don’t stop myself from looking at him. His chest is just as beautiful as his back: six-pack, defined muscular V dipping into his shorts, and spattering of dark hair across his pecs and under his bellybutton.
I wrinkle my nose in faux distaste and meet his eyes. “You’re all sweaty. Were you exercising or something?”
Leaning back against the counter, he crosses his arms, making his biceps bulge. The memory of being wrapped up in those arms at my house the other night sends goosebumps up my arms.
Walking around the little bar between the kitchen and the living room, I pass him to get to the cabinet. I can feel his eyes on me.
