“We should keep things professional,” he said, but he didn’t move away.
“We should,” Nora agreed.
Neither of them moved.
“When this is over,” Carson said finally. “When you’re safe and Eugene is behind bars and there’s no conflict of interest...ask me again. Ask me if this is just a job.”
“And what will you say?”
His hand came up, hovering near her face but not quite touching. “Ask me and find out.”
Then he stepped back, breaking the spell. “Get some rest. Big day tomorrow. Finn’s bringing over more files for us to review.”
He left before she could respond.
Nora closed the door and leaned against it, pulse racing, skin still tingling from his almost-touch.
When this is over.
She had something to look forward to now. A promise of possibility.
If they could just survive long enough to reach it.
Chapter 8
Carson couldn’t sleep.
He’d tried. Had gone to his bedroom at midnight, laid down, closed his eyes. But all he could see was Nora standing in that doorway, looking up at him with those dark eyes that saw too much.
Ask me when this is over.
What the hell had he been thinking, saying that? Promising her something he had no business promising. Making this personal when it needed to stay professional.
But looking at her—brave and scared and trusting him with so much more than her safety—he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
Carson rolled over and checked his phone. 2:17 AM. He’d been lying here for over two hours, wideawake, hyperaware that Nora was just down the hall in his guest room.
This was a bad idea. All of it. Bringing her here, working side by side with her, letting himself care about her beyond professional concern. Holloway was right—he was crossing lines, blurring boundaries, losing his objectivity.
But the alternative was leaving her vulnerable. And that wasn’t an option.
Carson threw off the covers and pulled on a T-shirt and sweatpants. Maybe some water would help. Or checking the security system for the fourth time tonight. Or doing literally anything besides lying in bed thinking about the woman down the hall.
He opened his bedroom door quietly and padded down the hallway, his bare feet silent on the hardwood.
A sound stopped him. Quiet. Muffled. Coming from the bathroom.
Crying.
Carson’s protective instincts roared to life. He moved to the bathroom door—slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway—and knocked softly.
“Nora?”
The crying stopped abruptly. A sharp intake of breath. Then silence.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her voice was thick with tears. Shaky. Not fine at all.
Carson pushed the door open slowly. Nora sat on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, knees pulled to her chest. Her face was blotchy from crying, her eyes red-rimmed and wide with something that looked like panic.
