Page 47 of Tell Me All Your Lies

It doesn’t matter how frequently I take private planes, a part of me will always want to get there as early as possible, as if it were a commercial flight.

This is something I’ve learned to tone down over the years, but if anything, I’m going to let myself be who I am… even if that means arriving at a private airport earlier than I should.

Heading into the bedroom, I walk over to Grant’s side of the bed. His arms are flexed behind his head, and all I can see are the muscles I’ve recently discovered I enjoy staring at, taunting me.

I’ve never really taken a good look at Grant before this. Of course I’ve looked at him, but there’s something different about watching him in this state. He sleeps peacefully, far better than I usually can.

I probably woke up a dozen times last night, tossing and turning while my mind raced alongside the nerves in my body.

“Sinclair.”

No response.

“Grant.”

Still nothing.

I rest my hands on my hips and hang my head back in frustration.

“This man,” I whisper.

“My wonderful husband is what I think you meant to say,” Grant rasps.

His husky tone is unexpected and sends a jolt of electricity through my body. I want to take a step back but can’t. If I did, then he would catch on quickly about the way he makes me feel these days.

“We leave in ten. Get ready.”

I walk away and leave Grant in the room to get dressed.

In the living room part of the suite, I pour myself a cup of the coffee I had delivered earlier and add sugar to it.

Sitting down in the single chair next to my bags, I wait for Grant. As I take a drink of the hot coffee, I hear his shower turning off and then some fumbling closer to the door.

I take a few steadying, deep breaths. They help me compose myself during times of distress.

Good. He’s almost ready. We can get out of here, finally—move onto the mission at hand and have less one-on-one time where we try to get to know each other.

I need to get a handle on these newfound feelings.

I wince.

I do not have feelings for Grant Sinclair.

Abruptly, I stand upright and fix my blazer, then grab my suitcase, duffle bag, tote bag, and purse.

“Heading out. See you on the plane,” I shout.

Without giving him a chance to answer, I walk out the hotel door.

I may not have feelings for Grant, and this may be a mission, but I need some space to breathe without him in my proximity after the past twenty-four hours.

I rush out the exit and step into the waiting car service. When I close the car door, I let the driver know someone needs to pickup Grant too. He calls it in and says someone will also notify Mr. Sinclair.

Good.

That’s handled.

“I didn’t takeyou as a runner, Collins.”

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