Page 57

I glare at him and flip him off before moving on to the next document.

He looks increasingly pleased with himself as he reaches for his coffee. The steam curls upward, and my eyes follow it for a second too long. The warmth looks decadent, almost cruel in contrast to how numb my fingers feel. I tuck my hands under my arms, pretending I’m fine. Theo eyes me suspiciously.

Giles brought us both mugs a few minutes ago, balancing them neatly on a tray that probably cost more than my car.

I downed mine the second he stepped back over the threshold and vanished like a very well-dressed phantom.

“You’re freezing.” Theo sets his papers down.

I look up, confused, just in time to catch him studying the way I’ve curled into myself. “You’re not going to be any use to me if you turn into an icicle.”

Use is a loaded word coming from him, and my brain supplies far too many interpretations.

Before I can argue, he nods toward my crossed arms. “Give me your hands.”

I hesitate, but only for a second. Apparently that’s one second too long—because he reaches across the space and takes them himself, his palms closing over mine—broad, warm. The heat of his skin is immediate and delicious. He rubs soothing circles on the back of my hand, then blows a breath of warm air between his palms and presses them back around mine.

It’s nothing. And somehow everything. The kind of small, wordless care that shouldn’t mean as much as it does.

We both linger, like neither of us wants to pull away, but we don’t really know what to do with the space between us now.

He clears his throat, lets go, and slides his coffee toward me. “Here. Hold this instead.”

I curl my fingers around the mug, the warmth seeping in. “I’m your cup holder now, or?”

He glances back down at the document. “Didn’t want to leave a ring on the desk.”

He is so full of shit.

It’s such a small thing. Barely anything at all. But I feel it. The way he notices. The way he pays attention.

Which is dangerous.

Because it makes me notice more of him, too. In ways that I most definitely should not be.

I clear my throat and look back down at the papers in front of me.

“You really had a hunch about this place?” I ask, desperate to redirect my thoughts.

“Yeah. That, and I enjoy lying to people.”

I glance up, amused.

Theo huffs a laugh. “Evelyn just seemed like the type to let me dig through her archives if she thought I was writing a book. She likes the flattery, the drama… and I find it entertaining.”

I shake my head. “You’re diabolical.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Same thing.”

We fall into silence, sifting through old wills, estate plans, birth and death certificates—things that should be mundane, except something feels off. The files are incomplete, gaps where there should be more documentation, and some pages show clear signs of having been fucked with. Words scratched out. Entire sections missing. It’s sloppy, but not sloppy enough to be accidental.

I’m elbows-deep in file folders when Theo lets out a startled breath. He’s crouched near the bottom drawer of one of the metal cabinets, holding a rolled sheet of yellowing paper.

“What is it?” I ask, standing to peer over his shoulder.

“Blueprints,” he says, carefully unrolling the paper across the long table beside us. “Of the compound. Dated almost fifty years ago.”