Page 70 of Blind Prophet

I’m not the same woman from before, either. I’m far more independent and assertive.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

“And contact me every day. When are you returning?”

“Sunday. I have work on Monday, right?” There’s a bite to my tone I don’t intend, but I don’t appreciate her lack of confidence.

“You know Ryan will give you the time off if you need it. You can take the time if you want it.”

Can I? Of course, I can. Because I’m technically doing exactly what the Arrow team wants me to do. I’m learning more about a person of interest and gathering intel.

My eyes fall to the clothes Dorian must have laid out on the bed for me. I finger the old Brown University sweatshirt with the frayed edges and navy sweat bottoms. Several T-shirts are stacked on the comforter beside the sweats. The clothes in my suitcase survived, but they reek of fumes from the explosion.

I used to love wearing his clothes. More than once, I wished I hadn’t left this sweatshirt behind. It’s from his undergraduate days, and it’s soft and worn, and well, it was always my favorite.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say and end the call.

I’m tired and done talking with Sophia about Dorian. Project Unity consists of hundreds, if not thousands, of investigators from multiple countries, each person tasked with a role. I will perform my part and get them the intel they’re seeking, but in my gut, I know Dorian’s innocent, and my role is to rule out his involvement. Now his father is another story…but Halston wouldn’t do something without his son’s knowledge.

Dressed in Dorian’s clothes and thick wool socks I found in the chest of drawers, I head into the great room. Through the picturesque windows, scattered white flakes swirl in a stunning array before the aspens and firs. Instead of getting lost in the magical scene, I find myself assessing sight lines, possible surveillance positions, and natural cover points. The snow will make tracking movement easier, but it also means we’re more isolated, if that’s possible. The driveway to Dorian’s house is over a mile long, and it’s an even longer drive to his father’s place.

“Might get a couple of inches,” Dorian says in greeting. “Are you in the mood for tea? Hot chocolate? Something stronger? What can I get you?”

Thick marled grey socks peek out from beneath the bottom of his jeans, and the untucked flannel shirt he’s wearing brings me back to when we met in England. This was his weekend look, and I could never get enough of it. He’d wear a tee with a flannel tied around his waist when warm and over the tee, unbuttoned, when chilly. Yes, when I met him, there was nothing to indicate he was any different than the other students.

His gaze catches mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch, and I swear I can feel the connection between us, like an invisible string, tying us together, as if years haven’t separated us. The normalcy of the moment makes it hard to believe we almost died earlier in the day or that the world is on the brink of war.

It’s bizarre. The far-off chaos feels surreal, like something I can ignore, and that’s exactly what I want. To drink hot chocolate and watch the snow fall.

“Do you have whipped cream?”

The devilish grin that flashes heats my cheeks.

I place a hand on my waist and give him a look that says I’m serious, but I can’t stop the grin.

“No, but I can fix that easily.” He moves to his phone on the kitchen island.

“The grocery store delivers?”

“My house manager does.”

“Don’t bother. Tea is fine.”

He sets about filling a kettle with filtered water, then picks up his phone and taps at it, sending a text to someone. If I were to guess, someone received an order to deliver whipped cream.

“I meant what I said about talking.”

“So did I,” he says. “We can watch the snow fall while we talk.” He pauses, gaze flitting up and down my body. “Damn. You still look good in my clothes.”

“They swallow me.” I finger the frayed edge, and a flash from the past, of him peeling this off me, comes out of nowhere. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even bother to remove it; he’d just remove my bottoms, and his hands would roam my skin, finding my breasts beneath the sweatshirt, tweaking my nipples—stop. “How old is this sweatshirt, anyway? It must be nearly twenty?—”

“Cara.” His voice is firm, but he’s grinning enough that the dimple shows, and I love it. “Don’t go there.”

“I can’t believe you still have it.”

“I’ll never get rid of it. Too many memories.” He turns his back to me and places the back of his fingers on the kettle, checking the heat.

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