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Chapter Seventeen
Sean ran as fast as he could.
It wasn’t all that fast, given the snow pack on the shoulder of the road and the bitter wind, but he ran fast enough to make his lungs burn. He’d long since lost feeling in his toes, his cheeks, and the tip of his nose. A rime of frost covered the light gloves he wore—his own sweat, frozen as soon as it met the air—and he knew he was courting danger staying out here.
It was fucking cold, dark as pitch, and only a complete asshole would be outside running in the streets of Buffalo, New York, in early February at nine o’clock at night.
She drove him to new heights of idiocy.
He ran harder. Twenty more minutes, and he’d be wiped out enough to sleep.
Of all the outcomes he’d considered when he drove over to Katie’s house this morning, he hadn’t really thought she would come with him to Buffalo, and he’d certainly never imagined he would find himself in a situation where sex with her started to seem like a distinct possibility.
A possibility he had to make damn sure to avoid.
It was his own fault. He’d stepped way out of line—first at the club in Louisville, then at her house, and again in the truck. The problem was, where Katie was concerned, he had no self-control. None.
For a man who’d spent a decade practicing control like a religion, that was a bitter fucking pill to swallow.
Turning onto Delaware, he slowed to a walk. The lit facade of The Mansion beckoned from down the block. Sean tugged his hat down over his ears as a fresh runnel of sweat hit the back of his neck and chilled in two heartbeats.
Hot shower. Bed. A decent night’s sleep. He’d wake up in the morning fortified against Katie and the threat she presented to his mental well-being. Tomorrow, he’d shoot her a quick email about the case and hole up in his room until he’d made some headway on Judah’s psycho.
If he just kept away from her, he wouldn’t have to think about the way she’d looked in the car, half-dressed with that red bra peeking out of her shirt. Eyes closed. Breasts arched toward him in invitation. Hands sliding restlessly over her thighs.
Everything about her saying Touch me. Every instinct he had screaming at him to oblige.
She’d just come out the other side of a divorce. She thought she wanted some fun, but he couldn’t be the one to give it to her. If he kissed her again, he would give her too much of himself, and then he would have to break it off, because the last thing he needed—the absolute last fucking thing—was another reason to remain in Camelot. It was impossible.
Any kind of physical relationship between him and Katie Clark had “bad idea” written all over it.
He passed through the parking lot and let himself in the side entrance, peeling the traction cleats off his running shoes and trying to knock most of the snow out of the coils before he came fully indoors. The Mansion hosted wedding receptions in its plush downstairs rooms. It was no place for a smelly, irritable guy to be dropping chunks of ice and snow.
On the way up the stairs, he pulled his jacket over his head, knocking off his hat in the process. The lightweight wool shirt he’d worn as a base layer was soaked with sweat, and he barely had the strength left in his legs for the second flight.
He definitely didn’t have the strength for the sight of Katie knocking on the door to his room with a bottle of wine tucked awkwardly under her arm and two mugs dangling from her free hand.
He’d just have to find some.
“What do you wuh-want?”
Focused on the door, she hadn’t heard him coming. When she turned, her free hand went to her throat. As he approached, her eyes raked over him, head to toe and all the way back up.
“Sweet Baby Jesus,” she said. “You were running? Outside? It’s, like, minus two hundred degrees out there.”
According to the outdoor thermometer, it was 3 degrees, not counting wind chill. The sight of Katie’s smooth, bare shoulders was nearly enough to make him break a sweat.
She wore her flannel pajama pants and the sleeveless top she’d had on in the car. What the hell was she doing with bare arms in the middle of the winter?
Sean brushed past, careful not to touch her, and opened the door to his room. “Go away, C-Clark.”
“Don’t be rude,” she said. “There’s a Jackie Chan marathon on, and I brought wine.”
“Chicks don’t like Jackie Chan.”
“I do. You want me to tell you all my favorite parts of Rumble in the Bronx to prove my credentials?”
“No. I wuh-want you to g-go away.” He walked into the room, leaving her in the doorway and hoping she’d take the hint and quit torturing him. The red bra straps weren’t peeking out from under her top anymore, which could only mean one thing.
