Page 240 of Chameleon Killer

I went up on my toes and kissed him. Flint made the mistake of kissing me back. For several seconds, the diner ceased to be a priority. Then his hands tightened on my hips and he broke the kiss with obvious reluctance.

“Clothes.”

“Has anyone ever told you that being so responsible is not always a perk?” I made a face at him.

“Once or twice.” His eyes twinkled despite the sobriety housed in them.

“I want a raincheck for after.” Because I really didn’t want to give up this time we’d carved out for ourselves.

“Done.” He sealed it with a kiss. “Now go.” He gave my ass a swat as we headed toward his room at the same time.

Thankfully, I did have some of my clothes there, but I draped myself into his sweatshirt once more after I had on leggings.

I also took the time to comb out the wild tangle of my hair and braid it. It was the only way to tame the bedhead unless I wanted to shower again.

Flint was ready far swifter than I was, but he didn’t rush me and the warmth in his eyes as he watched me was as tangible as a caress.

“Keep staring at me like that, and we’re never getting out of here.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Mal.”

The corners of my mouth kicked upward. “I still have my raincheck.”

He chuckled. “Let’s go. Before we really don’t get out of here.” At least he seemed as unhappy about the idea as I was.

The diner was exactly two blocks away but Flint still drove. I could have pointed out that walking would have been faster after we spent ten minutes getting dressed and another five locating my bra beneath his bed. I didn’t even remember shedding it before my shower earlier.

But why bother? Flint was already in a mood. Elliot’s arrival had knocked him off-center. To be fair, it hadn’t done much for my equilibrium. Particularly coming so hot on the heels of blowing that line separating personal and professional off the map between Flint and me.

He’d called the diner before we left, then the front desk, then someone named David who apparently worked security at the network and had been sleeping until Flint woke him.

I didn’t ask what Flint told him nor did I eavesdrop. I suspected the answer was enough.

“You’re expecting trouble.”

His eyes remained on the road. “I'm expecting Brewster.”

“That doesn’t always mean the same thing.”

“No.” But the simple response indicated it didn’t mean it wasn’t trouble.

I waited.

He glanced at me.

I smiled.

His attention returned to traffic. “You realize that doesn't work on me.”

“It absolutely works on you.”

“Not today.” Interesting qualification.

I watched the city slide past the passenger window. Sunday traffic remained light. People walked dogs. Couples carried shopping bags. Someone jogged through an intersection wearing shorts despite the cold.

Everything looked just so—normal. The idea looked almost as alien as it felt right now. My world had truly narrowed to this one story, the investigation, and hiding either from the killer, the FBI, or everyone else.

I’d been in war zones less chaotic.