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“I’m just going to take a nap,” she mumbles.
“Do not drool on my upholstery.”
“Prickly,” she responds, but shuts her eyes.
And yes, I am prickly. I have to be, because seeing her in my coat, in my car, her head dangerously close to falling onto my shoulder, makes possessive need claw at my stomach. You don’t do this. I shut my eyes and replay the scorching kiss behind my lids. I don’t do this. I don’t kiss women. I certainly don’t mess around with anyone who plans to betray me, woman or otherwise. But does she plan to betray you? I watch her lids flutter slightly. Her plush lips are parted. She might look innocent in her sleep, but I know she’s trying to dig up as much detail as she can on the company. She can’t help herself. Fuck.
I tap my fingers on the seat as we approach her apartment. I need her out of this car. She’s too tempting. She smells good and her soft breaths make me want to pull her onto my lap. And what, have her sleep on your chest? Not fucking happening.
We pull up to the brownstone, and I murmur her name.
“We’re at your place.”
“No,” she says sleepily. “My dad. I don’t want him to see me drunk. Too embarrassing. Take me to Adriana’s please.”
“Is she awake?”
“She will be. I’ll buzz her until she gets up.”
“Doorman building?” I need to know if she’ll be drunk on the steps of another brownstone in the wee hours.
“No. It’s fine. I’ve done it before.”
She shifts and her head falls onto my shoulder. I freeze. Shake her. Kick her out of the car. Remind her of her place in your life. You’re the villain, remember? My hand clenches on my thigh. It’s either that or settle her against me. You don’t do this.
But the thought of her, drunk, tired, waiting for her friend to let her in. I can’t.
“Lou. Take us home.”
Within minutes, I’m stepping out of the vehicle and scooping her carefully into my arms. She settles against my chest like she was meant to be there. Her warm breaths puff against my neck as I mount the steps to my apartment.
She wakes when I start climbing the staircase, and I gently set her down. I own a fully renovated brownstone, two actually, that have been combined into one soaring, modern, apartment building. A glass-topped addition on the roof provides a generous amount of sun that filters down into the building during the day. The bedrooms are on the second floor.
“Where are we?” Callie blinks sleepily.
“My house.”
She cranes her neck to see into the living room, and I grab her hand. “Not now. You can be nosy in the morning. I want to sleep.”
I lead her up the stairs into the primary guest bedroom and curse under my breath when I see the disarray.
“What’s wrong?” She blinks sleepily at the messy room.
“The guest bedrooms are being renovated. New mattresses.”
“I can sleep on the couch.”
I sigh. “There’s one in the master suite. Come on.”
Leading Callie Thompson into my bedroom is weird. She’s darting glances left and right, at the massive California king, the reserved decor, the old books, the door into the sitting room where the couch is.
“Bathroom is on the right.” I point at the first door.
She looks at me uncertainly. “Are you sure about this?”
I’m already pulling an extra comforter out of the closet. There are no extra pillowcases. Fuck it. She can use mine.
“Am I sure about what?”
