Carter caught his wrist and stopped him from turning away. Lincoln flinched, his pulse hammering under Carter’s thumb. “Easy,” Carter coaxed. He glided his thumb over the inside of Lincoln’s wrist, aiming to soothe the professor and himself. He’d shaken Lincoln’s hand before, eight years ago on the first and last days of class, and touched him more than a few times tonight. Stood by his side, his hand on Lincoln’s lower back. Grasped his forearm just a moment ago. But electricity hadn’t zipped down his spine any of those times like it did now.
Another swipe of his thumb, over the pressure point he’d been after, and Lincoln’s shoulders relaxed, as did his chin, lowering to his chest. “Sorry, gotta get used to it still.”
“We both do.” Carter gave the pressure point another massage and more of the tension faded. Lincoln sank back into the chair. Another five minutes and he’d melt into a puddle on the floor. Carter was after a little more information first. “One, we don’t have after-hours access to the library yet. And two, you’re exhausted and upset. You’re tight with Kirk?”
Carter didn’t resist when Lincoln withdrew his hand. “He was my mentor.”
“Figured as much, since he was the last one to hunt Dr. Fear.”
“I interviewed him when I was working on my thesis, then was his assistant the last time Dr. Fear was active. But it’s not just the work connection.” He ran a hand through his hair, then, elbow on the table, rested his head in it. “My parents are back in California, and we’re not close. My ex-wife’s family is in Puerto Rico. Ollie became our family in DC, took us into his. Ruby is like a niece to me, and she’s terrified of water. We used to go to the beach with them, a week every summer, and the screened-in back porch was as close as she would get to the ocean. The thought of someone drowning her . . .” He turned his face into his hand. “Every hour she’s gone . . .”
“Is another hour she and Chase likely won’t come home.” Carter knew the statistics too. He laid his hand on Lincoln’s back. No flinch this time, a good sign. “Go get some sleep and be ready to put your game face on in the morning. We’ve got breakfast with Susanne and company at Flour Power.”
Lincoln rotated his face, a single eye and cocked brow visible. Oh, if there was an I’m-judging-you emoji, that face was it. “Flour Power?”
“According to Susanne, the town hippie opened a café.”
“Would’ve never guessed,” Lincoln said, standing.
Carter followed, remaining close, but still some distance between them. Not much, though. Lincoln needed to get used to Carter in his space, and Carter selfishly wanted to steal one more moment of the other man’s heat in case Lincoln woke up tomorrow and decided this was all a terrible idea. “I moved your stuff into the primary down here. I’m in one of the bedrooms upstairs.”
The last bit of tension in Lincoln’s body floated away on a quiet “Thank you.”
Carter gave his wrist a light, parting squeeze, then turned for the stairs. “Holler if you need anything,” he said, voice raised.
“Which of the accents is real?”
Hand on the banister, Carter grinned over his shoulder. And wiped the Georgia accent away in favor of New Jersey. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Four
As Lincoln expected, the Wrangler was gone in the morning. He’d phoned Susanne and sure enough, it had been towed. She apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry,” she’d said. “Coffee’s on me this morning, and I’ll have the tow company return it to your driveway by end of day.” And in case he’d missed the emphasis on driveway, she’d tacked on that it was a strange car, parked at the curb in front of her house against HOA rules. She didn’t have any option but to have it towed.
Carter had shoved a coffee mug at him, shutting up his reply about choices and the dozen other cars parked at the curb last night. “Not enough time to pick up,” Carter said as he’d rushed them out the door, leaving a mess behind. Did Carter actually know the meaning of the words?
Lincoln had been groggy enough and the coffee had been heavenly enough to distract him. He wished he had another cup of it now to distract him from the gauntlet that lay ahead. If the Polks’ house had been the place to be last night, Flour Power was the place to be this morning. The café was packed.
But it did look neat and well-kept in there. Which was more than Lincoln could say about Carter’s Forester out here. It just looked kept. A thermos in one of the cup holders. How long had it been there? What was growing inside it? A stack of fleece blankets in the back seat. When was the last time they’d been washed? File boxes in the trunk. Had Lincoln read the date right on them? Eight years’ worth? And how many lottery tickets did Carter have clipped in the driver’s-side visor?
The car was maddeningly consistent with the state of the kitchen this morning. It had killed Lincoln not to empty the coffeepot and wash out their mugs before leaving, but after the long day and night yesterday, he’d overslept, and they were running late. Even later after the Wrangler debacle.
“Problem?” asked the smirking man in the driver’s seat. He’d ditched last night’s smart casual in favor of jeans, a blue long-sleeve Henley, and a leather jacket. The combination was likewise maddening. Made Lincoln want to?—
No, he wasn’t going there. This was a cover, nothing more. Nothing to the sizzle he’d felt when Carter had touched him last night. Nothing to the warmth that blanketed him whenever Carter invaded his space. Nothing to the surprising kindness that belied the smug grin. It wouldn’t last. They were complete opposites, and Lincoln wouldn’t bring someone else into his family’s life that could hurt them.
Lincoln cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “It’s very lived in.”
“I spend more time in this car, going from assignment to assignment, than I do at my apartment. And besides, you’re still here, avoiding going in there.”
Lincoln stared out the windshield at the crowded café across the street from the university lot where they’d parked. Occupied booths in varying shades of pastel ran the length of the plate glass windows. The center tables were mostly claimed, and diners sat shoulder to shoulder at the counter. He counted heads. More people than were at the house last night. “We’re on the clock,” he said. “Ruby and Chase have twenty-seven hours left. I need to get to the library and start going through those archives. I don’t understand why I need to be here.”
“Why don’t you want to go in?”
“I’m not the best in these situations,” he said, “if you couldn’t tell that from the party.”
“You were confident at first.”
“When I was still pissed at you, then reality intruded.”
