Page 66 of Protect Thy Enemy

It is kind of funny, but I don’t laugh.

Grant’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “She’s just making sure she’s fully stocked. In case she gets bored.”

I whip my head toward him, ready with a retort, but he’s already turned away, tossing his phone into the SUV and stalking toward the trunk of my car.

Before I can stop him, Grant grabs one of the heavier bags and slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. He grabs another and drops it unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Hey!” I snap.

His eyes sweep over me briefly, lingering on the workout clothes I threw on this morning. The way his gaze darkens, skimming over me like a slow burn, sends a flicker of heat crawling up my spine.

I force myself to hold his gaze. “Watch what you’re doing. That’s my stuff.”

His lips twitch in the faintest smirk as if he’s already won some unspoken game. “If only you spent as much time packing as you did snapping, we’d be gone by now.”

I grit my teeth, stepping back as he slings the last bag over his shoulder and loads it into the SUV with infuriating ease.

“Let’s go, Rookie,” he says without looking back, his voice curt as ever.

I frown, glancing at the others. “What about Tate and Park?”

“They’re taking their own car,” Grant replies, opening the driver’s door. “You’re with me.”

Fucking.

Great.

I climb into the passenger seat, closing the door a little harder than necessary. The air inside the car feels stifling, the silence thick and heavy as Grant drives.

It remains quiet as we pull out of the lot, the hum of the engine filling the heavy silence. I stare out the window, arms crossed, trying to ignore the tension radiating off Grant like heat from a damn wildfire.

He doesn’t speak, his eyes fixed on the road, his grip firm on the wheel. Not that I want him to say anything. The last thing I need is another one of his snide comments to needle at my nerves.

I fidget with the strap of my bag, trying to focus on anything but the fact that I’m trapped in this car with him for the next five hours.

“Stop fidgeting,” Grant says abruptly, his voice breaking the silence.

I glance at him, startled. His eyes don’t leave the road, but his tone carries that familiar edge, the one that always makes me bristle.

“I’m not fidgeting,” I snap, shifting in my seat.

He doesn’t respond, but I catch the faintest twitch of his lips like he’s amused. The nerve.

The first hour crawls by, the silence stretching thin, and I start to feel every bump in the road, every shift in the air between us. It’s suffocating.

“You’re nervous,” Grant says suddenly.

I stiffen, my gaze snapping to him. “I’m not nervous.”

His brow arches slightly, a flicker of disbelief in his expression. “Right. You always tap your fingers like that when you’re calm.”

I glance down at my hand, realizing too late that I’m drumming my fingers against my leg. I clench my fist, forcing myself to stop.

“Who are you? The keeper of emotions?” I mutter, looking back out the window. “Maybe you should focus on the road.”

Another twitch of his lips, this one unmistakable. “Focus on the road. Of course.”

I grind my teeth, resisting the urge to respond. The last thing I want is to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten under my skin or, even worse, proving that he’s dead on.

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