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“What makes you say that?” His expression was now masked, which only confirmed her guess was correct.
“I mean, you’re forty-two and have never been married.”
“Forty!” He grabbed his chest, clutching it as though she’d shot him.
She leaned over him. “Are you having a heart attack?”
“Oh my god. I’m not.”
“I mean, older guys often have heart issues. It’s a sneaky killer. You should get that checked out.”
“Lark. I need you to be quiet for a minute while I recover from what you just said.”
She compressed her lips. Seconds ticked by.
When she could stand it no more, she opened her mouth.
“That was all of thirty seconds, Lark.”
Ignoring him, she said, “I think you’re committed to your job. To your stint in the Army before. But I think you don’t want to commit to a person.”
He made a snorting noise. “Huh.”
“Nailed it?” She cocked her head.
“Pretty much.”
She beamed.
“So, is this the part where you try to fix me?”
She stamped her lips over his. “You’re not broken. And I’m not looking for a project.”
His warm brown gaze intensified on her. “You’re looking for a partner?”
“Not that either.” She propped her chin on his chest and stared at him. “Can’t we just…live in the moment? Let’s just…try to live through this.”
ChapterSeven
Clay opened the dresser drawer and looked inside. Sure enough, there were stacks of clean clothes there in several sizes for both genders. He pulled a clean T-shirt in an extra-large off the stack.
Thank god for his close ties to WEST Protection. The team not only had safehouses all over the country, but they were fully equipped with enough supplies to get a pair of refugees over a hump.
Hell. A hump.
He swung his head toward the bed.
Lark was sprawled on her stomach, fast asleep. The sheet only went up to the small of her back, giving him a gut-clenching view of the dip that led to the swell of her buttocks.
Dark need swirled through him like a drug. He still wanted her.
He shouldn’t, but he did.
What made him cave in and sleep with the woman last night? He couldn’t blamethaton stimulants or lack of sleep.
He grabbed his own jeans from the previous day and tugged them on. With the fly still unzipped, he plucked a pair of brand-new socks from the drawer and carried them into the bathroom with him.
He needed to make some calls. First, he needed a check-in from Livingston about how much support he’d be getting from the FBI on this matter, because so far? They’d left him with even less support than his own team of one.
