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He’s your senior. Chill.
“You have ten minutes to impress me.”
What?
He nods at the file. “Tell me what you think.”
Logging out of my emails, I grab the folder and open it. There are surveillance photos of Kelmendi, and glancing through them, I frown. “He’s social.”
No response from O’Brien, who’s trying to stare a hole into my head. The man is so damn intense, my nerves feel frayed, and I haven’t even been in his presence for a full ten minutes.
I become aware of his cologne, the earthy scent stronger today and laced with sandalwood. My heart skips a freaking beat, deepening the frown on my forehead.
No, JJ. You have to work with him. No stupid crushes.
I force myself to focus on the information, and by the time I’m done paging through the file, I say, “He’s not in charge.” My eyes lift to O’Brien’s.
He stares me down for a solid minute, causing my stomach to flutter and tense all at once. Resting his ankle on his left knee, he leans back, his gaze so freaking potent I’m about to spontaneously combust.
“What makes you say that?” he finally asks, releasing some of the tension in the air.
“Kelmendi’s too social. He’s flaunting his success, which means he doesn’t have any. Whoever’s in charge won’t be out and about like that. It’s too much of a risk. My opinion? Kelmendi’s a smokescreen.”
O’Brien lifts a hand to his chin, the sound of his thumb scraping over the bristles making goosebumps spread over my body.
God, this man is too much. How can everything he does be so damn hot?
I swallow hard, my nerves starting to get the better of me.
“One fuck up, and we’re done,” O’Brien mutters, his already way too penetrating gaze filling with a look of warning.
Huh?
I blink at him like an idiot.
He climbs to his feet, his gray suit pants and dark gray button-up shirt not doing a single thing to hide his muscled build. “We’re heading out.”
Still blinking over here.
“Now, JJ!”
I’m up and running to catch up to O’Brien. “Where are we going?”
“To meet with an informant.”
Yes! I get to ride with him. This is huge.
Don’t screw it up, JJ.
Only when we’re down in the underground parking and walking toward a black SUV, do I ask, “So you agree? Kelmendi’s a smokescreen?”
“Yes.”
I open the passenger door and wait until we’ve both strapped on our seat belts before asking, “Then why did you bring him in?”
O’Brien starts the engine, and as he reverses the SUV, his eyes lock on mine, sending another wave of goosebumps scattering over my skin. “Because breaking into an Albanian crime ring is next to fucking impossible, and I needed to shake things up in New York. Hopefully, Kelmendi’s arrest will bring whoever’s in charge out of their hiding place.”
When O’Brien steers the vehicle out of the underground parking area and we hit the road, a grin threatens to spread over my face.
O’Brien’s annoyance from yesterday is gone, and it seems he’s decided to give me a chance.
I try to be subtle about it as I sneak a glance at the man who’s more impressive in real life than on paper.
That’s the understatement of the century.
God, he’s got this whole deadly attractive thing going that stuns me every time I lay eyes on him. The photo I saw of him when he joined the bureau might as well have been of a different man. The dangerous vibe, coupled with his dark, rugged features and muscled body, is off the charts attractive.
My stomach flutters again, then my heart sinks, knowing there’s no way I’m going to work with O’Brien day in and day out and not fall for him.
Ugh. Shit.
I let out a sigh, forcing my eyes to the road.
“Why did you become an agent?” O’Brien suddenly asks the low timbre of his voice making my crush grow against my better judgment.
“I want to make a difference.”
He smirks, the right corner of his mouth lifting slightly, and my eyelids freeze, so I don’t blink and miss a second of how hot he looks right now.
“There are plenty of other ways to make a difference. Safer ways.” We stop at a red light, then his eyes turn to my face.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and I instantly regret the nervous action. Knowing it’s important to form a bond with my team members, I admit the truth, “I want to make my father proud.”
This time O’Brien nods, no hot smirk in sight, his features drawn tight.
All you have to do is Google DEA Agent James Jefferson, and you’ll be hit with the violent way my dad was murdered by the cartel. I was sixteen when I made that mistake. The photos of his dismembered torso hanging from a bridge were only taken down after I saw it. However, the detailed, gruesome description of his death is still up.
