“Kitchen stuff. Doing the dishes. You move like you know what you’re doing.”
Something flickered across his face—that same brief panic I’d noticed earlier. “Basic life skills, aren’t they?”
We worked in comfortable silence, bumping into each other occasionally in the small space. Each accidental touch—Eamon’s hand on my lower back as he reached around me for a dish towel, my fingers brushing his as I handed him a wine glass—sent little jolts of electricity through me.
By the time we finished, the air between us was practically crackling with tension.
“All done,” I said unnecessarily, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
“Mmm.” Eamon was standing directly behind me now, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scents of dinner.
I turned slowly and found myself trapped between his body and the counter, his green eyes dark with an intensity that made my breath catch. He was so close I could see the faint scar along his jawline that I’d noticed that first day.
“Charles,” he said softly, and my name sounded different in his voice, rougher and more intimate than it had any right to be.
“Yeah?” My voice came out barely above a whisper.
He lifted one hand, cupping my face with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his size. His thumb traced along my cheekbone, and I felt myself leaning into the touchdespite every rational thought in my head screaming at me to be careful.
This time, I wanted him to kiss me. More than wanted—I needed it with an intensity that scared me.
He leaned closer, and I could feel his breath warm against my lips. Another inch and?—
He jerked back like he’d been burned, running a hand through his dark hair. “I should, uh, I should do another perimeter check. Make sure everything’s secure.”
“Eamon—”
“Give me a few minutes,” he said, already backing toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
And then he was gone, leaving me standing alone in my kitchen with my heart pounding and my lips tingling from a kiss that never happened.
I pressed my fingers to my mouth, torn between disappointment and relief. Part of me was grateful he’d pulled away—getting involved with him would be complicated at best, dangerous at worst. But a bigger part of me was frustrated beyond belief.
Because for those few seconds, I’d felt more alive than I had in years.
TWELVE
EAMON
I stepped into the crisp night air, grateful for the excuse to clear my head and put some distance between myself and the walking temptation that was Charles Garrity. The man was going to be the death of me—or at least the death of my career, which in celestial terms was pretty much the same thing.
Focus on the job, I told myself as I began my circuit around the property.Do your fecking job and stop thinking about how his lips would taste or how perfectly he’d fit against your chest.
Stop imagining what it would be like to wake up next to him, all sleep-rumpled and warm, or how he’d look spread out beneath me on those crisp white sheets of his.
Stop wondering if he’d make those soft little sounds I’d heard him humming while he cooked, or if he’d be as generous and enthusiastic in bed as he was in everything else.
And for the love of all that was holy, stop thinking about how good it would feel to have those clever baker’s hands onmy skin, or what it would be like to take my time exploring every inch of him until he forgot his own bloody name.
Just…stop.
With a groan, I pushed the thoughts from my head, taking a few deep breaths as I walked the perimeter, checking on all the equipment I had installed. The motion sensors were all functioning properly, their tiny lights blinking steadily in the darkness. The cameras I’d positioned showed no signs of interference, and the reinforcements I’d placed on the doors and windows remained intact. From a security standpoint, everything was exactly as it should be.
Too bad I couldn’t say the same about my emotional state.
I paused beside Charles’s flower garden, staring down at the neat rows of rosemary and sage, the purple spikes of late-blooming lavender, and clusters of bright-yellow mums without really seeing them. A few stubborn asters clung to life despite the cooling nights, their tiny purple flowers defiant against the approaching winter, while the ornamental kale added splashes of deep burgundy and cream to the organized chaos of Charles’s perfectly maintained beds.
What the hell was wrong with me? In three centuries of guardian work, I’d never experienced anything like this. Sure, I’d been attracted to protectees before and had acted on it—hence my trouble with Gabriel. That closeted baseball player I’d guarded had been a dirty, eager bottom in bed, and I’d shared some great times with a Dutch politician as well. He’d been an absolute dick, but the man could suck cock like a fecking champion.
