He’s number three.Or four.
I stopped counting.
I’m too busy trying not to let my fists do the talking.
But it’s hard.
So goddamn hard.
Especially when Sabrina glances over at me between dates like she knows I’m watching.
Like she’s checking to make sure I’m still there.
Her eyes land on me, and even from across the room I can see the slight arch in her brow.
A question.
A challenge.
A spark.
Fuck me, I think she likes it.Likes this.
Me.Being here.Watching.
Good, Little Girl.Because I’m not going anywhere.
Not until this job is over.
Not until the threat is neutralized.
Not until I find out who’s making her nervous enough to clutch her bag like it’s a lifeline on the way to her car.
And not until I know every damn thing about her.
Her favorite coffee.
Her bedtime routine.
The kind of panties she wears under that sexy as fuck teacher’s skirt.
I’m a professional.
But I’m also a man.
And this woman?
She’s already got me praying for forgiveness for things I haven’t even done yet.
But I will.
Damn straight, I will.
She shouldn’t even be here.
Not in some basement-turned-meat-market, sipping lukewarm coffee out of a paper cup while strangers judge her based on five minutes and a prayer.
But she came anyway.
