Page 48 of Entwined With You

Chapter Fourteen

The ride back to Brax’s apartment seems to take forever. I don’t know what he’s thinking about, but ever since he held my hand on the Pacific Plunge, my mind has been going down some very naughty paths.

Except that’s not exactly accurate. The truth is, I’ve wanted him since I first got this assignment, although I haven’t included that little tidbit in any of the reports I’ve submitted to Group Ultra.

And—who am I kidding?—even that isn’t accurate. The truth is, I never got over him. I guess that makes me one of those pathetic women who still wants the man who hurt them. Except in my fantasies, it would almost always turn out it had never been him at all. He’d come to me, explaining that someone had double-crossed him. And even if I let my fantasies run with the idea that he really had been out to kill me, in my version of the story, he suffered so desperately from guilt and shame that seeing me alive has broken him. He wants only to make it up to me to and will do anything to prove his love.

Anything at all. An-y-thing.

It made for some tantalizing late-night fantasies.

But that’s nothing compared to the real thing. And the truth is that now that I’ve convinced myself that he really was innocent in the bombing, all I want is to get him back.

I can’t tell him the truth, though. For one, all I have is a gut feeling. And while I trust my gut, I don’t think Group Ultra will be too pleased if I turn in a report saying that I’ve been sleeping with one of the men on the heist team I put together so that we could protect the very diamonds that he and I once tried to steal.

I could be wrong, but I’m thinking that’s a no-no in my line of work.

Then again, who says I have to tell? After all, I’m—

“—or just stay here all night.”

Brax’s voice yanks me from my thoughts. Which, frankly, is probably a good thing. I take a breath to pull myself together, then turn to face him. “Sorry, what?”

Brax’s face practically glows from the power of his grin. “I was just saying that we should either go inside or make up our minds to just stay here in the parking lot all night.”

“Right. Sorry.” I shift in my seat, certain my cheeks must be bright red. I think I even half-dozed off, lost in my thoughts. In the fantasies that keep peeking in around the edges.

Please, please don’t let me have talked out loud.

“As comfortable as Old Blue is, I’m going to vote we go inside.” I congratulate myself on my light tone, then slip out of the car without looking at him again, just in case he can read the truth in my eyes.

He probably can.

He always could before.

We’re out of the car and walking across the parking area toward the street when he says, “It’s still early, and we didn’t eat. Want to walk around the corner to Blacklist?”

I almost say yes, but the truth is that I’m tired of being with him around other people. He may not be mine anymore, but I want a few minutes just to ourselves. “Would it be terrible if I said I’d rather stay in with pizza, a bottle of wine, and a movie?”

“Action ? Comedy? Psychological thriller?”

Considering the way my mind was going earlier, I almost suggest something ridiculously steamy. Like Body Heat. Instead I tell him that he can make the call.

He nods, says he’ll think about it, and when we reach his door, he suggests 91/2 Weeks. “I decided to go with psychological thriller,” he says, with absolutely no irony in his voice.

Since that was our go-to movie as horny sixteen-year-olds, and we’d watch it whenever we managed to wrangle access to a television and CD player, I enthusiastically—but not too enthusiastically—agree.

“How about pizza? What’s your flavor?”

“Pepperoni,” I say automatically.

“With mushrooms?” He looks hopeful.

I laugh, then shake my head. “Sorry. Brina and I were identical in that respect, too. We both hate mushrooms.”

He chuckles. “Well, damn. And here I thought you were an upgrade.”

I swallow, but I say nothing. I force myself not to react at all. But this is the first time I’ve heard him say anything about my death that wasn’t heartbreaking. Not that I want him to dance with joy at the thought of me being dead, but I don’t want him to continue being tortured, either.