The problem wasn't the near-collision. The problem was Cory Fraser in civilian clothes.
Gone was the crisp uniform that screamed "authority" and "keep your distance." Instead, he wore dark jeans that fit him entirely too well and a gray henley that made his eyes look like storm clouds. He looked... normal. Approachable.
And dangerously attractive.
"Kitchen?" he asked, lifting the grocery bags.
"Yeah. Through there." She grabbed her own bags—mostly coffee and energy drinks—and followed him into the common area.
Knight Tactical's headquarters included a full kitchen designed to feed hungry operators between missions. Industrial-grade appliances, massive island, enough counter space to prep for an army. Which they often had.
Now it was just the two of them, trying not to bump elbows as they unpacked groceries.
"Cabinet?" Cory asked, holding up a can of soup.
"Wherever." She turned to shove her energy drinks. When she turned back, he was arranging the cans by type.
"Are you... alphabetizing the soup?"
He didn't look up. "It's more efficient."
"It's chicken noodle, not a filing system."
"Organization saves time." He placed a can of tomato soup in its apparently designated spot. "You'll thank me when you need minestrone in a hurry."
"When has anyone ever needed minestrone in a hurry?"
The look he gave her was so seriously offended that she had to bite back a laugh. Chief Fraser, Terror of Hope Landing's criminal element, personally victimized by soup disorder.
"You should get settled," she said, needing distance before she did something stupid like find him endearing. "The guest suites are down that hall. Take your pick."
He immediately headed for the suite nearest the stairs. Of course. Tactical position, clear sightlines, easy access to exits. She shouldn't have expected anything else.
Izzy chose one two doors down, far enough to maintain some privacy but close enough that he could reach her if?—
No. Not thinking about that.
The suite was nicer than most hotel rooms—queen bed, full bathroom, even a small sitting area. Ronan had insisted on comfort for visiting operators and agency liaisons. She dropped her bags and took a moment to breathe.
Living in close quarters with Cory Fraser. Hiding from whoever wanted her dead.
This was insane.
She found him back in the kitchen, now organizing the refrigerator.
"You know," she said, leaning against the counter, "I have other options. Guys like Wilson who do private security. Former operatives who owe me favors. You don't have to?—"
"I'm not leaving." He didn't even look up from his produce arrangement.
"You have an actual job. Police chief stuff. You can't just put your life on hold to babysit me."
"I'm not babysitting." He closed the fridge and faced her. "I'm investigating attempted murder and aircraft sabotage."
"Which is the FBI's job now."
"The FBI doesn't know Hope Landing. They don't know the players or the dynamics, who belongs and who doesn't." He leaned against the opposite counter, mirroring her pose. "Besides, this is... interesting."
"Interesting?"
