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9
Grant pressedEndon his phone and turned to Tati, who sat on the sofa, watching him intently while eating her third bowl of Chex cereal.
“Which do you want first? Good news or bad news?”
“Bad,” she said, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth.
The back of his neck grew warm watching her sitting cross-legged on the sofa in her pajamas, which were comprised of a T-shirt, without a bra, and minuscule stretchy pink shorts.
“The trunks aren’t there,” he informed her, causing her to pause and lower the bowl.
“That’s really bad. So, what’s the good news?”
Grant grabbed his duffel bag by the table and shoved his laptop inside. “They’re in Wayward.”
“Wayward? As in South Georgia?”
“Yep.” Where did he throw his socks?
“Birdie took the steamer trunks to Wayward?”
“You would have made a crackerjack of an FBI agent, Ms. Northrop.”
“And now you’re being a colossal dick.”
“If the Magnum fits…” Grant didn’t know why he was taking his anger out on Tati, but she was spot-on. He was being a dick. She was an easy target, and he was taking advantage of it. But he was pissed at himself and not sure how to deal with the fact he had been acting like anything except an appointed officer of the law, whose life was run by rigid rules and protocol. Protocols that had been painstakingly established for the express purpose of keeping people safe. None of which he had been following the last few days.
For the first time since he’d met her, she placed a bowl of half-eaten food to the side as if she’d lost her appetite and stood. “You’re packing?”
“Again, your deductive reasoning skills are astounding.”
Jesus, Mason, what the fuck?
Crossing her arms and jutting out a hip, she glared at him and then softened. “Okay, you’re pissed and I’m not sure why you’re taking it out on me…”
Well, now she was just making him look like a clueless ass. “I’m leaving for South Georgia to get the diary and thumb drive.”
“Isn’t there someone you can call? Can’t you send one of your officers to locate the trunk and diary for you?”
Grant straightened and turned her direction, doing his best not to home in on the narrow swath of fabric that just barely covered her…
Fuck. Concentrate, jackass.
“You know better than anyone, I haven’t been following the book on this whole thing since day one. Look at me. Here I am, outside of my authorized jurisdiction, slapping wigs and creaseless concealer on my brother—who happens to be a respected mayor—sending him out to a known felon’s home for the purpose of reconnaissance.”
She began to chew on her thumbnail. “Sometimes, there are…extenuating circumstances.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Ms. Northup. There arealwaysextenuating circumstances. But that doesn’t give me the right to throw years of training and professional oaths out the window to accommodate them.”
He tried to soften that last bit of diatribe. To his relief, she didn’t appear chastised. Rather, for the calculating and brash woman she was, she looked to be maddeningly understanding.
Standing so close to him he could smell the cinnamon on her lips.
She moved closer. “I’d like to thank you, anyway.” She bit her bottom lip, her nipples sticking out like two bull’s-eyes on a paper silhouette target.
How long had it been since getting any target practice? He pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t recall. His days were swamped, his evenings reserved for events that helped to build community trust. And now, he was on a wild-goose chase to find a thumb drive in some kid’s diary that may or may not be the evidence they needed to bring charges against the bad guys.
“No need to thank me,” he said, his voice cracking, causing him to swallow the bullet lodged in his throat.
