Don’t misconstrue. I only told her what I wanted her to know, but, for the most part, it was honest. She knows how I joined the Bureau and why, she just doesn’t know what keeps me here. No one knows that. Not even me.
When Agent Russell spots the heavy groove between my brows, her smile sags. “Could you spare a few minutes of your time? I bought food.” She holds up a bag of Chinese, doubling my suspicion. Women don’t feed you unless they want something. I fell for that trick with Olivia. I won’t do it again.
“It’s late. I’m sure anything you need to tell me can wait until the morning.”
I freeze with my key halfway into the lock of my front door when she asks, “Even if it regards Melody?”
The tightness of my jaw is heard in my reply. “I doubt you have anything of interest to me.”
“You haven’t given me the chance to present my findings, so how can you say that?” Agent Russell fights back.
I finish shoving in my key, twist the lock, then push open my door. “Because there’s nothing you could tell me about her that I don’t already know.”
“Once again, I beg to differ.” To ensure I can’t slam the door in her face, which I had no intention of doing, Agent Russell shoves her foot into the doorway. “I’m just going to leave this here in case you change your mind.”
I eye her curiously when she places the bag of Chinese on my entryway table along with her business card and an almost flat FBI-sealed envelope. When she catches my curious gaze, her lips curl into a grin. “I already ate. Seeing a perp roughed up has always made me extra ravenous.”
I throw my head back and laugh, stunning both Agent Russell and myself. She watches me in shocked awe like I did when I heard Isabelle giggle for the first time. It gives me a newfound appreciation as to why Isabelle acted like she was suddenly bombarded with hives. It’s kind of creepy, and if I were honest, highly-craved. When you dig yourself out of the trenches every once in a while, even the most unsuitable suitor appears appealing. Don’t get me wrong, Agent Russell is attractive, but not even a death wish would have me acting on any of the inane thoughts in my head.
“Call me when you’re ready.” The heavy stomp of her feet when she spins on her heels and gallops down the stairwell nearly drowns out what she says next, “I left my private cell number on the back of my card.”
The heavily weighted door on the front of my apartment building slams shut a few seconds later, then I make my way inside. I had planned to hit the shower before calling it a night, however, the scent of peanuts and marinated chicken alters the direction of my course. Agent Russell might work within the Internal Affairs division of the Bureau, but at the end of the day, we’re on the same team. I’m also starving. That alone has me skipping the protocol I usually do to ensure my food hasn’t been tainted.
After snagging up the bag of Chinese along with Agent Russell’s business card and envelope, I make my way to my room to get changed. Once I’m donning a pair of gray sweatpants and a casual tee, I stack my pillows on top of one another before slipping between the sheets. Although I usually eat in the living room, with how heavy my eyelids are, I doubt I’ll make it halfway through my meal before I fall asleep, so I’d rather eat in bed.
“Damn, she got the good stuff,” I murmur to myself when I pry open the first container of Chinese. She purchased the most expensive items on the list, including abalone, which is a combination of shark fins, snails, and sea cucumbers.
With my nose screwed up, I dump the container of abalone onto my bedside table before digging into the combination fried rice and satay chicken. My grandfather’s hard work may have lined his grandchildren’s pockets with money, but that doesn’t mean I’m a snob. Usually, two tablespoons of peanut butter get me through the night before I slather it on toast in the morning.
I’M three quarters the way through my meal, and almost comatose when my cell phone dings, announcing I have a text message. Considering the late hour, I’m confident it’s Grayson, so you can imagine my surprise when I discover it’s a text from an unknown number.
Unknown number: What are you wearing?
Assuming they have the wrong number, I reply.
Me: I think you have the wrong number.
Curious, I watch the three dots float across the screen instead of finishing my dinner.
Unknown number: Blond, five-eleven, 170ish pounds with a cute, although slightly wonky smile.
Cute?
Through twisted lips, I tap out my reply.
Me: Sounds about right. I still think you have the wrong number, though.
Unknown number: It’s egotistical to think your smile is cute, BJ.
As I sit up straighter in my bed, my heart races. There’s only one person young enough to be up this late who calls me BJ. She’s in another state, engaged to another man. But that doesn’t matter, right? We’re texting, not organizing a hook-up. This is a perfectly acceptable form of communication for once best friends.
Now I just need my cock to get the memo. With the taste of peanuts on my lips, it’s not recalling any of the years Melody and I were friends. It’s remembering the time Melody obliterated my love of peanut butter by making it an obsession.
Ignoring the throbbing rod of flesh sitting heavy on my thigh, my fingers fly across the screen of my phone.
Me: It’s only egotistical if it isn’t untrue.
A grin curls my lips when Melody’s reply pops up. She doesn’t use any words. She just sends an eyeroll emoji.
