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Six days away—six days without seeing him, or talking to him, or being near him. I’m so angry about it I want to claw at my skin.
“Oh.” His teeth scrape over his bottom lip, once, twice.
Then he’s moving, turning to his desk, grabbing a pen. He scrawls something on the corner of the schedule Matt just gave him and tears it off, then walks back to me. His pupils dilate when our eyes meet and he passes me the slip of paper.
It’s his phone number. His personal cell.
“Just in case.” His voice is light, like him giving me his private number doesn’t mean we’re stepping out into thin fucking air. “If you get bored, I’ll be here. Rattling around this haunted house.”
I’m juggling lit matches that he’s passing to me over a tank of rocket fuel. My brain is screaming to disengage, to walk away before it’s too late. Nothing irrevocable has been done yet. Dreams can be forgotten.
I want answers to my whys and to the riddles Brennan Walker is giving me, but I’m on the verge of sliding into discoveries and truths that maybe I’m not ready for. I’m dreaming of a man in my arms and in my bed, and of Walker’s eyes, and Walker’s scent, and Walker’s touch, and it’s only my brute stubbornness that’s refusing to connect those dots.
Push the note back into his hands. Say no.
I slide his phone number into my pocket. “Give President Harrison’s ghost my regards, sir.”
