“Not that I’ve seen.” A pause. “Then again, I haven’t been looking.”
Another long beat.
“Flint?” he asked and, for just a brief moment, impatience flickered across his face.
I didn’t pretend. “He texted.”
“And?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
Something unreadable crossed Brewster’s face. Approval? Possession? Relief?
“Good,” he said. Again.
I bristled. Again.
“Stop saying that like it’s a reward system.”
His gaze held mine. “Then stop doing things I approve of.”
I laughed once—short, breathless.
“The clip’s already moving,” he continued. “Small accounts first. Commentary without context. Exactly what we wanted.”
“Meaning he’s likely seen it.”
“Yes.”
The space between us narrowed without either of us stepping forward. Awareness thickened. Every nerve lit.
“You left,” I said quietly.
“I came back.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t see you.”
That was prevarication at its finest. “Not the same thing.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”
Silence stretched—charged, dangerous.
“You’re angry,” he said.
“With you?” No, I let my mouth curve slightly. “No.”
“With yourself?” he countered.
I shrugged. “You’re hardly the first mistake I’ve made. Don’t worry, Agent Brewster. I’m an adult. I’ll be fine.”
That did it.
He crossed the room in three strides and stoppedtoo close. No touch. Just presence. Then he all but hauled me up out of the chair. Heat radiated off of him and there was no mistaking the surge of electricity where his hands connected with my arms. He raised one—stopped short of my jaw, like he was deciding whether he trusted himself.
“You aren’t doing this alone,” he said softly.
