He looks at the scratch marks on his chest.
Then at me.
I refuse to blush.
Absolutely refuse.
He smiles.
Slow.
Terrible.
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
“Just evidence.”
“Put your shirt on.”
“Yes, Watch Manager.”
It sounds differently now.
Everything sounds differently now.
He seems to realise it at the same time I do. The words hang there, half joke, half memory of his mouth against my ear and his hand on my hip and that low, dangerous certainty he had when he told me I was not in charge here.
My skin heats.
His eyes darken.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.” He winks, and my ovaries stage a formal protest against the concept of employment.
AJ finishes dressing, then comes to sit on the edge of the bed beside me. He does not touch me immediately, which is somehow worse than if he had. He waits until I look at him.
“Are we all right?” he asks.
The question is simple.
It still makes my chest feel too small for my ribs.
“Yes.”
The answer comes quickly.
Too quickly, maybe.
But not falsely.
We are all right.
I am the problem.
Not him. Not this. Not exactly.
