“I need to get home; I need to think.” I rush out and grab my purse.
“Charlie.” Declan stands behind me in the empty hallway. “I’ll get you a ride share.” He is already tapping on his phone.
“My car wasn’t damaged; I’m not leaving it here all weekend.” I’m firm, but I can hear in my voice that I’m too exhausted to fight.
“Fair point,” Declan says, putting his phone away. I think I’m about to be rid of him when he says what I least expected. “I’ll drive you home.” His voice is steady, even. The sound of it calms me down; it’s amazing what a difference there is when he isn’t snarky with me, even if I still don’t like what he is saying.
I brush off his offer. “I’ll be fine.”
“No offense, but you are not fine. You’re in shock and you passed out. It would be irresponsible for you to operate a vehicle.” There is a finality to his voice.
I don’t really have a choice. I roll my eyes and start walking to the elevators.Again.
“You know the last time we were here, we got shot. So maybe I’m safer getting home on my own,” I tell him, trying to lighten the mood. To alleviate the weight of this knowledge.
Declan laughs as we exit the elevator, actually laughs. He runs a hand through his hair and I see a dark purple bruise splayed across his wrist and forearm.
“Declan, you need to get that checked out!” I say, my voice too high, as I grab for his arm instinctively. As if I could provide any kind of first aid.
Declan shrugs off my concern. “Eh, I’ve had worse.” His skin is warm beneath my fingers and I realize thatI’m touching Declan Davidson! That reminder alone should have me dropping his hand like it’s hot, but I don’t. I glance over the ghastly bruise and wonder how much he is trying to look brave and tough. Is he impervious to pain? Or is it all for show?
I release his hand and he flexes it, moving it this way and that. The taut muscles and tendons of his hand and forearm are on display.
“Maybeyoushouldn’t be driving either,” I point out to him.
His thick eyebrows knit together, as if he is considering that my words might have merit. I decide to not roll my eyes at him and continue toward the parking garage.
We remain silent for the rest of the walk to my car. My plain, ordinary sedan waits for me on the far side of the parking garage, completely unaware of the excitement and chaos from the half-floor below.
I unlock the car and Declan swoops in front of me. He opens the driver’s-side door, pops the trunk, and then inspects below the steering column. Satisfied, he moves round the vehicle, looking for what, I don’t know. He roots around in the trunk and then slams it shut.
Declan moves with precision and purpose. The way he deftly puts his hands on my car reminds me of the strength he displayed earlier. He could pin me down and keep me from harm but also carefully lift me and carry me inside.
“All clear,” he announces, setting his hands on his hips, his inspection of my car complete. A fire inside my belly screams for him to continue his inspection. To check me with his thorough hands. If rude Declan was attractive, then focused and protective Declan is on a whole other level.
He is being a decent person. He is doing his job, I remind myself.
I mutter my thanks and hold my car keys tight. “I’m fine, really,” I assert once more.
Declan scrutinizes me, his eyes tracking from my eyes down to my hands. “I’ll follow you home in my car,” he says. I open my mouth to object and he holds up a hand. “Final offer. Take it or hand over the keys.” He holds out an open palm, waiting for my decision.
I get in the car. Before I can close the door, Declan stops it. I look over at him, at his arm casually on top of the door. His chocolate eyes are searching, his cologne still fresh and alluring. Declan assesses me like I might faint again.
“I’m letting you follow me.” My words are a little cold.
He gives one nod, accepting this. “We’ll talk more on Monday,” he tells me. “Oh, and I know you and Ana are getting close,” he starts, “but she doesn’t know about the covert side of things. So if you need to talk to someone about everything . . .” He trails off and reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet and a pen. Quickly, he scribbles something and hands it to me.
Don’t look at his hands. Don’t look at his forearms. Eyes forward.
His FIRE business card. On the back is another number.His number.
If I need to talk to someone about getting shot at and finding out I am working for a bunch of spies I have to talk to . . .Declan?!
I shake my head; the unbelievable nature of this situation continues to escalate. “Got it,” I say and pull the door closed.
Driving away, I can’t help but wonder,What have I gotten myself into?
16
