My eyes snapped up to find him watching me with that knowing smirk, the one that said he’d caught me red-handed and was thoroughly enjoying it.
“Your tattoos,” I said, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile. “They’re … detailed.”
“Uh-huh.” The smirk deepened. “That’s what you were thinking about? The detail work?”
Heat crept up my neck. He laughed, low and warm, andsomething in my chest loosened. Until he pulled into the group home’s driveway.
You can do this,I told myself for the zillionth time.
“Come on.” He killed the engine and climbed out. “Let’s get this done.”
He smirked, and damn if it didn’t make my stomach do a little flip. Criminal defense attorneys shouldn’t be allowed to look that good in worn jeans and a soon-to-be paint-splattered henley. It was basically entrapment.
The foster home was eerily quiet when we entered with just the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.
“Where is everyone?” Ryker asked, his voice echoing slightly in the empty foyer.
“Job applications, counseling sessions, programs.” It was why I was okay coming here today; I’d never talk about my past or my court situation if any of the kids were around to hear it. I led Ryker toward the stairs, hyperaware of how close he was following.
“And they actually follow the schedule?”
I whipped around so fast, he nearly crashed into me. “They’re good kids.”
“I didn’t mean …” He raised his hands in surrender. “I just meant, you know, teenagers. Not exactly known for their compliance.”
“These ones are different.” I started up the stairs again, trying not to notice how his presence seemed to fill the narrow stairwell. “They’ve been through enough to know that structure helps.”
“Speaking from experience?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not yet.
The bedroom was exactly as I’d left it days ago, before my world imploded. Paint supplies stacked in the corner, drop cloths still folded, blue painter’s tape waiting to frame the windows. The cans of paint sat there, mocking me with their cheerful label.Electric Lime.
If I squinted, I could almost pretend the last few days hadn’t happened. Almost.
“I’ll say it again,” Ryker said, surveying the room. “We could do this at my office. Or anywhere with actual chairs.”
“Right, because nothing saysbare your traumatic pastlike fluorescent lights and a conference table.” I grabbed a drop cloth and shook it out, the plastic crackling. “The only way I can talk about any of this is if my hands are busy. I considered doing this during a hike—I love hikes, by the way—but it’s supposed to be rainy and cold, so why not be productive, you know?”
His eyebrow quirked up, lips twitching.
“Not like that,” I said, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“Sure it is.” His gaze traveled down my outfit, and suddenly, my paint-appropriate leggings and tank top felt like a tactical error. “Though dressed like that, you should be plenty cool.”
Oh. Oh, we were doing this now? Fine. Two could play.
“Problem with my outfit, Counselor?” I bent to smooth the drop cloth, maybe taking a beat longer than necessary.
I heard his sharp intake of breath. “No problem at all.”
“Good.” I straightened, tossing him a roll of painter’s tape. “Make yourself useful.”
He caught it one-handed, andwhy was that attractive?Everything this man did was becoming a problem for my concentration.
