And yeah. I fucking like her.
A hell of a lot more than I’ve ever liked any other woman.
I rifle farther down into the bag and find another notebook, this one mostly logistical. Addresses.Questions. Routes. A map with several places marked. She’s been building something in that head of hers, and not all of it is as reckless as it looked from the outside.
Then I find a pair of panties tangled in the corner beneath a shirt.
Black.
Lace at the edges. Barely there.
I lift them without thinking.
Then, because apparently I’ve made peace with becoming exactly the kind of man she should fear, I bring them to my nose.
Soap. Skin. Her.
She’s worn them.
A strange, low heat moves through me—ugly and immediate.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter to myself.
The kitten meows up at me like it agrees.
I stare at the scrap of fabric in my hand, then fold it once and slip it into the pocket of my jeans before I can decide against it.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
SHILOH
On our way back. She’s got coffee and beignets. Five minutes. Maybe less.
I go still. Five minutes is enough time.
Enough time to leave.
Enough time to stay.
For one brief, vicious second, I imagine remaining exactly where I am. Sitting in her chair with her notebook open in my hands. Letting her come through that door and see me in the middle of her private life. Letting her understand just how completely she’s failed to get away.
It would be easier than letting her play her little games. No more pretending she has room to maneuver. No more leash. No more games whatsoever.
I could take her by the wrist, sit her down on this ugly motel bed, and tell her precisely how this goes from here. She would fight. She would spit. She would say something sharp enough to deserve punishment.
And I would drag her back anyway…maybeafterI fuck her senseless. Because there would be abefore.And there damn sure would be a during. Maybe she’d squirt on my dick this time.
The image takes hold harder than it should. My fingers tighten on the notebook. Then I exhale, set it back exactly where I found it, and stand.
Not yet.
There’s more to learn with her loose than there is with her screaming.
I do one last pass of the room, making sure nothing looks disturbed. The envelope goes back in the bag. The sweater over it. The notebook beneath the same bent corner. The chair angled toward the bed just as it was. When I reach the door, Homer follows me.
I look down at him.
“No.”
