Page 97 of Red Marked

“I’ll fit and you won’t. It’s a case of simple math.” She gestures with the pillow. “I’m half your size. I’ve been sleeping on rock and dirt for the last five years. A carpet with a blanket is a five-star hotel to me.” She puts the pillow down, shakes out the blanket, and crawls under it. She’s right. She fits just fine.

“Please, Star. You don’t have to⁠—”

“I know I don’t have to, but I’ll be just fine. Let’s watch the movie. Have you seen it?”

“No.” I pick up my pizza box. “We can share the bed while we watch television. I’m good with that. Spooning…not so much.”

“I’m good down here.”

Shit! I’ve gone and made things awkward, which is probably for the best.

“I plan on being nothing but professional,” I say, wincing. I’ve said that so many times now I’m starting to sound like a broken record.

“I know you are. I’m good. I swear. Forget about it.”

I huff out a breath.

Crap! It’s definitely awkward as fuck.

31

Star

This time when we pull up at rich Tank’s house, there’s a black SUV in the driveway.

“He’s home,” I say unnecessarily, but I’m so excited that I can’t help but state the obvious.

“Looks like it.” Flint switches off the engine. “Same as before. We’re journalists for the Mistveil Sun.”

“Got it.”

I get out and watch him come around the hood of the car.

He’s in suit pants and a white collared shirt with the sleeves turned back twice. His shoulders are broad, and his hips are narrow. His thighs are thick in those pants.

Wow.

He looks pretty good. My eyes keep drifting toward him. I can’t stop checking him out, and I need to.

I keep thinking about what he said to me last night. Flint said that he’s attracted to me. I caught him looking at me a few times, but…that was an admission. He didn’t even want to share a bed, which I suppose makes sense.

It’s nothing, though. Flint was adamant about that. I’m about to be his employee; he has rules, and he doesn’t bend them for anyone.

Fine by me. I have enough on my plate.

Jett might not have moved on. That’s a chapter I need to close…or maybe not. And Flint is my boss.

Why do I keep repeating that over and over to myself?

It doesn’t matter.

I’m wearing slacks and a blouse. We both look the part. Formal without being overly dressed. I even put a little mascara and lipstick on.

We walk up the drive. The porch boards have been freshly stained. A wind chime hangs by the door above a pair of work boots lined up against the wall. Flint knocks.

There are footsteps, and the door opens.

He’s freaking huge. As wide as he is tall, with a neck that runs straight into his shoulders and forearms like hams. His head is shaved. He’s in a T-shirt and sweatpants. His photos didn’t do him justice. He’s better looking in the flesh, in a hard, blunt kind of way.