“What?”
“You heard me. Our mother. Well, not her directly. Her assistant. Probably.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
She wasn’t sure when he’d moved. When he’d leaned toward her across the table, when he’d covered her hand in his. “I’m sorry.” The words were soft and low and so sincere that for a brief moment, Faith allowed herself to imagine what would happen if she laced her fingers through his.
“Me too.”
“I guess we should call it a night.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. “I need to go home and get some sleep. You probably need to figure out how to get that profile down.”
She groaned.
“Tomorrow we’ll talk about the FBI and the Secret Service and find out who killed my friends.”
Faith didn’t miss the way he left out the part where someone had tried to kill him, and she appreciated the way he acknowledged that he hadn’t answered her question regarding his disgust with the FBI. All in all, it was as good an end to the evening as she could hope for at this point.
She gathered the rest of her things and didn’t complain when Luke’s hand rested on her elbow as they made their way back to the car.
The drive back to his house was mostly quiet. When he climbed from her car, she expected him to say a quick goodbye and go inside. Instead, he turned back. She lowered the passenger window, and he leaned in.
“Thank you for taking me to dinner tonight and for showing me where you row. When this is over, maybe you could take me out on the water and give me some lessons.”
Was he asking her out? No. He was just...
“Oh”—he tapped the edge of the car window—“and no matter what I say tomorrow, between you and me, I’m really glad Gil had a roast in the Crock-Pot.”
He winked. “Good night, Faith.” With that, he turned and walked up his porch steps.
It wasn’t until she’d pulled out of his driveway that she realized she’d never said yes to the lessons. But the idea of spending more time with Luke stayed with her the whole way home.
A KNOCK ON THE DOOR, more of a pounding than a knock, woke Luke the next morning. He rolled over and grabbed his weapon from the pillow beside him.
Everything hurt, and he didn’t bother to hold back a long groan as his body, stiff from lack of movement overnight, stretched and pulled in painful ways as he got to his feet and flicked on the switch of the small monitor resting on his nightstand.
A few quick taps, and the view from the camera on his front porch filled the screen.
Zane and Gil ... and Faith?
What were they doing here at ... a glance at the clock on the nightstand.
9:37 a.m.
What? That couldn’t be right. He grabbed his phone.
Dead.
He dropped it back on the nightstand and pulled his iPad off his dresser. It had a charge and confirmed not only the time but also the long string of missed texts that began at 7:30 a.m. and continued to this moment.
He’d slept too hard and too long. An occupational hazard. Especially now.
He texted Gil from the iPad as he gingerly moved through his room.
Sorry. Overslept. Coming.
He could not make himself move any faster. He attempted and gave up on pulling a T-shirt over his head. This was worse than yesterday. Had he ever hurt like this before? He filed through the various sports he’d played, the martial arts he’d studied, and all his training for the Secret Service.
