Curling my fingers around the mug, I take a sip of coffee to give myself something to do with my hands. “Are we going to talk about what happened last night?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When I look up, he’s watching me again, slower this time, like he’s taking inventory.
“Not right now,” he says at last.
“Why not?”
His gaze drops briefly to where his shirt slips off my shoulder before he looks back up. “Because, princess, you’re standing there in my shirt looking like you belong here, and I’m trying real hard to behave.”
I nearly choke on my coffee.
He hides a grin behind his mug. It’s quick, but I catch it, and I like his smile more than I should.
He sets the mug down, and his voice is more controlled. “Today you stay here for a few hours,” he says. “We think the bar’s being watched. Apartment isn’t.”
“Until lunch?”
“Yes. I’m making some calls, and one of the guys is coming by later to check the locks downstairs. Then I’m taking you to see Viv.”
“Viv?”
“Vivienne Lambert. Runs a boutique in town. She’ll fix…” His eyes flick over me again. “…this.”
I glance down at the borrowed shirt. “You don’t like your clothes on me?”
Striker shakes his head. “I like them on you too damn much.”
He works at the kitchen table for most of the morning, laptop open, voice low when he’s on the phone. Names I don’t know drift through the apartment. His tone shifts depending on who he’s speaking to, but it’s always controlled. Occasionally, he swears in a low tone, a line appearing between his eyebrows as he scowls at something on the screen.
I try to read on the couch. The book stays open in my hands, except every few minutes I find myself tracking the movement of his hands across the keyboard and the way his gaze flicks toward me like he’s checking I’m still exactly where he left me.
It makes my pulse speed up every time.
Around twelve, Striker closes his laptop and looks over at me properly for the first time in a while. His gaze lingers just long enough to make it clear he’s noticed everything I haven’t been doing.
“You’re climbing the goddamn walls,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“Princess.” He gestures toward the book. “You’ve been on the same page since ten.”
I glance down. He’s not wrong. “Maybe I’m a slow reader?”
A quiet snort escapes him, and I feel absurdly pleased with myself for causing it.
He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Come here for a second.”
I set the book aside and walk over to stand by him at the table.
“You’re an IT grad? Anything around here you know how to fix?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes. “Is that a serious question?”
“Define serious.”
There’s a hint of flirtation in his voice that makes my core flip.
“Well,” I say, “I could take a look at something small. If you trust me not to break it further.”
