“Not for a while, sir.”
I nod and head down the hallway and poke my head into her quarters. It’s empty. The bunk is made up neat as a pin. Her few belongings on her bedside are lined up. The space smells like her.
Fuck.
I back out before my mind can run away with my body.
It’s hard enough keeping my errant thoughts in line without having to keep a pin in whatever effect her proximity, her fragrance have on me.
“You looking for Tennison?” Cap asks.
He’s standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, his polo shirt stretching over his girth.
“Yes sir.”
“Try the watchtower.” Without another word or smart-ass comment, he walks on down toward the lockers and bathroom.
Running a hand through my hair, I hesitate.
Is it that obvious I’m looking for her?
Guess standing in her quarters would suggest that, wouldn’t it.
Dammit.
The last thing I want is to land London in trouble with Cap.
Ignoring my rational brain, I descend the stairs and stride for the watchtower. I don’t see anyone up there, but I take the steps two at a time up each flight regardless. The higher I climb, the more faint the music becomes. Now I understand the need to be up here more with every tread I climb.
When I reach the last flight, I’m breathing heavy.
With no hoses, a run up these stairs should be a cakewalk. It’s the sight of London sitting with her back against the brick, her palms planted either side of her and her face turned to the sinking sunset that has me out of breath.
Her hair whips around her face, the breeze tugging and tossing it where it sees fit. Dark locks bounce over her collarbones, around the creamy column of her throat...
“You need something, Miles?” she says in a low tone, her eyes still shut.
“Only to know where you were,” I send back, the words more gravel than I intended.
Now her head rolls on the brick. Her eyes open, pinning me where I stand with a dark, penetrating stare. “Sit.”
I lower myself to the floor and lean back on the wall. We’re mere inches apart. “Not a fan of crowds, either?”
“Something like that.”
The tension between us is too much.
It’s seconds away from combustion point.
And I?—
“Are you ever going to make the first move, Miles?”
That . . . I wasn’t expecting.
“London.”
“No,” she turns her head, her eyes meeting mine. “Don’t you ‘London’ me. This thing is not one-sided, at all. You know it, and I know it.”
