Page 24 of You, Only You

"I'm not hovering. I'm providing orientation."

"You've shown me where the towels are three times."

"...Have I?"

"You have." But the corner of her mouth moved, just barely, and it wasn't a smile but it was the possibility of one, and I'd take it. "Goodnight, Will."

"Goodnight."

She closed the door. I stood in the hallway for a count of ten, then walked to my room and shut myself inside.

The city glittered beyond my windows. Somewhere out there, Victor Reeves was probably drinking something expensive and congratulating himself on a message well delivered.

He'd wanted to scare her. Shake her loose from the case. Make her feel small and vulnerable and alone.

Instead, she was in my guest room. Under my roof. Behind my security system.

He'd made a mistake. He just didn't know it yet.

I stood at the window for a long time, running through what came next. Bates would need to know about the break-in. The security detail needed to be in place by morning. The storage unit protocols would have to change. New routes, new schedules, new communication channels.

Operational. All of it, operational. I was good at operational.

What I was less good at was the other thing. The thing where her fingers had curled around mine in the car, and I'd felt something burst in my chest that wasn't rage or calculation or strategy. The thing where she'd looked up at me onthose apartment steps and I'd wanted to fix everything, burn everything, tear apart anyone who'd made her feel afraid.

That wasn't operational. That was something else. Something I didn't have protocols for.

I'd figure it out later. Right now, there was a security detail to arrange and an FBI agent to brief and a trafficking ring CEO who had just made the worst tactical decision of his life.

I pulled out my phone and started making calls.

The work was familiar. The anger was useful. And if, between calls, I pressed my hand flat against the door of the guest room just to confirm she was on the other side of it, that was nobody's business but mine.

7.Lindsey

Iwoke up in Will's guest room at 6:47 AM, disoriented by thread counts that definitely exceeded anything in my apartment and the unsettling absence of street noise. For three full seconds, I didn't know where I was. Then the previous night assembled itself in my head like a case file: break-in, spectacular fight about autonomy, Will showing me where the towels were three times, his jacket still draped over the chair by the bed because I'd fallen asleep wearing it, which was information I planned to take to my grave.

Great. Excellent. What a normal week.

I lay there staring at a ceiling that probably cost more than my car, trying to get my bearings. The penthouse was silent in a way that felt almost aggressive, no traffic, no neighbors, no radiator clanking. Just the soft hum of expensive climate control and the distant awareness that I was sleeping approximately forty feet from a man who made my nervous system do things I hadn't authorized.

The smell hit me first. Coffee. Rich, dark, definitely not from a gas station. And something else, butter, maybe? Something cooking?

I pulled on yesterday's jeans and a wrinkled sweater, caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and immediately wished I hadn't. My hair was doing something structurally ambitious that defied both gravity and good taste. I ran my fingers through it until it looked less like a modern art installation and more like a person who'd had a rough night, which was at least accurate. Then I padded out into the main living space.

The penthouse was exactly what I'd expected: chrome and glass and sharp angles, every surface gleaming with the kind of aggressive minimalism that screamedI have a cleaning service and no hobbies.Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the city that was probably meant to be impressive but mostly made me feel like I was in a very expensive fishbowl.

Then I reached the kitchen, and everything I thought I knew about Will Steele went sideways.

He was standing at the island with his back to me, sleeves rolled up again, always with the sleeves, whisking something in a glass bowl. The morning light poured through the windows and caught the silver at his temples, the strong line of his forearms as he worked. Copper pots hung from a rack overhead, actual copper, with the patina of regular use. The cutting board on the counter was worn in the center, dipped from years of knife work. Spices in little glass jars. A proper gas range.

This wasn't a showpiece kitchen. This was a kitchen that someone actually used. Frequently. With competence.

I stood in the doorway and had a small, private crisis.

Here's the thing about attraction that nobody warns you about: it doesn't escalate in a straight line. It doesn't build gradually from "he's objectively good-looking" to "I have feelings." It ambushes you. You're fine, you're professional, you're handling it, and then the man makes an omelet, and something in your brain short-circuits so completely that youstand in a doorway like a concussed deer watching him whisk eggs.

This was not in my contingency plans. I didn't have contingency plans for this. I had contingency plans for forensic audits and hostile depositions and awkward conversations with my incarcerated father. I did not have a contingency plan for a vigilante in a Henley making breakfast.