“I’m the one who has to patch you up when you get your ribs cracked. Again.”
“That’s only the second time this year,” Colt said.
Beck snorted and looked over at Brenna. “He’s your problem now.”
“Thanks,” she replied, not even trying to hide her concern.
Colt caught her expression, and something in his gaze softened. “Hey, I didn’t get my ass shot off.”
Brenna met his eyes and tried to school her face, but the heat that crept up her throat betrayed her. He was alive. But it had still been a close call. Then again, anytime shots were fired at you, she supposed that qualified as close.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Well. Try to keep it that way.”
Beck finished wrapping the compression bandage around Colt’s torso and took a step back, arms crossed. “Good news is your ribs aren’t broken. Just a deep-ass bruise that’s gonna hurt like hell for a while.”
Brenna didn’t need to be told that. She could see it in the way Colt held himself, in the tightness of his jaw and the sweat beading at his temples. He’d been hurting ever since the bullet hit his vest, but he hadn’t said a damn word about it.
“I can call in a script for some pain meds and have them delivered—”
“No,” Colt cut in before Beck even finished. “I need a clear head.”
No one looked surprised. Not Beck, and definitely not Brenna.
“Suit yourself,” Beck said, clearly used to stubborn patients. He looked over at her then, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “You planning to work for Crossfire Ops or just freelancing your way into firefights?”
Brenna gave a half-laugh. “No. This isn’t a job interview.”
“But?”
She sighed. “But this place already feels more like home than my apartment or my PI office back in San Antonio. And I hate that.”
Beck grinned. “That’s usually how it starts.”
He gave them both a nod and a smirk on his way out. “Try not to get shot again today,” he said over his shoulder, then pulled the door shut behind him.
Colt eased off the exam table and reached for his shirt. He moved slowly, stiff from the hit and the wrap, and even slower as he tried to lift his arms. “Where’s Harlan?”
“At the Crossfire Creek Sheriff’s Office,” Brenna said. “He’s waiting to hear Naomi’s statement once the locals finish taking it.”
Colt nodded, then winced as he worked the shirt over his head. “I want to hear it, too.”
Brenna let out a breath and stepped forward. “Stop moving. Let me help.”
He lowered his arms, and she eased the shirt over his shoulders, careful not to jar the bandage. The heat of his skin brushed her knuckles. His chest was bruised and battered, but still strong, still Colt. Still the man whose body could press her to the edge of reason.
It wasn’t easy standing this close to him, not with everything between them still unresolved. And when she lifted her gaze to meet his, she realized he’d caught the flicker of heat in her eyes.
His hand came up, fingers curling gently around the side of her neck. His mouth brushed over hers, a slow, scorching kiss that curled her toes and shorted out her thoughts. It wasn’t deep, wasn’t demanding.
It was worse. It was a reminder.
She broke the contact, breath catching hard and fast. “That was a mistake.”
Colt’s mouth curved, slow and sure. “Maybe. But it was a damn good one.”
Brenna sighed, shook her head. What she couldn’t do was disagree about that. It had been a damn good one. And bad, too, because it was whittling away at barriers that needed to stay in place if she hoped to hold onto even a shred of focus and objectivity when it came to this investigation.
Colt tucked in his shirt with slow, careful movements, then looked at her. “Did you mean what you said to Beck? About this place feeling like home?”
