Page 59 of Lone Spy

"Okay, I'll be off for the rest of the evening. Alesana will be at the door. You can always reach me on my cell."

"Hopefully there won't be any security issues as we watch…" I turn to the screen where Hannah has cued upElf. I laugh.

"Christmas is only a hundred and three days away,” Hannah says, raising her chin in faux defensiveness.

I laugh. "That's specific. Is it true?"

"I have no idea," Hannah admits, reaching for her wine glass. I laugh again.

"It's ninety-three days away," Ash says. We both turn to him. He nods. "Good evening, ladies." Then he leaves.

"He's something, huh?" Hannah says.

"Because he knows how many days until Christmas? For all we know he made that up."

"We could do that math," Hannah points out.

"I'd rather just watch the movie."

We skip the research and stick with the comedy, laughing so hard that tears well in our eyes. And I drink more wine than I should. So when my alarm goes off at 5:45 a.m. I'm in no mood for its beeping bullshit. But I get up. Because I didn't reach this place—living this life—by ignoring the promises I made myself.

When Ash knocks on my door at 6:29 a.m. I am dressed in my running shorts and T-shirt, hat brim pulled low. Sneakers laced. Ear buds in. Phone strapped to my low back. Water bottle in hand. A cup of coffee and a banana in my gut.

Ash is wearing the same black sleeveless top and shorts he did when I threatened to kill him. His tattoos draw my eye, and we stand there in silence for a moment longer than is polite. Or normal. Ash just lets me look. Not talking. Any judgment silent.

The tattoos look like snakes or vines. I take a step closer, reaching out to his bare bicep, as if the feel of the inked designs against my fingertip will tell me what they are, why they are there. What they mean to him.

Goose bumps break across his skin at my touch and electricity surges through my veins. The place where our skin meets is a live wire in the grid between us.

The brim of my hat narrows my view of the world—cutting Ash off at his throat. I resist the urge to crouch down and look closer at the tattoos on his thighs. A twin urge wants to pull up his shirt and see if the same design curls around his chest and licks down his abs. Is it all one image? One pattern?

I do let my fingers trace one of the designs up to his shoulder, my face tipping to follow their course. The inked skin feels the same as the bare. Ash clears his throat and I pull my hand back, suddenly hotly aware of how fucking crazy that was.

"Sorry," I say, stepping away. The brim of my hat still blocks his face. A blush I don't even try to control heats my cheeks.

"Thank you," Ash says, surprising me. I raise my gaze to his. He's looking down at me, his eyes soft. Vulnerable. "Thank you for saving my life."

I blink at him. It seems so out of context. One second I'm molesting the man's tattoos and the next he's…oh. He's taking a step toward me. His hands find my hips. It's not the professional touch he usually uses. This isn't the flat-handed pressure of a security agent moving his charge.

Ash's fingers grip, grasp. My shirt scrunches, the edge of his hand coming into contact with naked flesh. Electric shocks rock from the contact. He's holding the same place he did in the bathroom when I teased him. But this isn't the same.

Ash stares down at me, his eyes bright under the brim of his black cap. I take in a stuttering, surprised breath. He looks left then right, checking the hallway. I can't break my gaze from his throat. Can barely resist the urge to lick from his tatted collar bone right up to his?—

"Linda Whitmore is in a car waiting for you outside," Ash says as his focus comes back to me. "She wants to talk." My brain stutters to catch up. His fingers tighten, bringing all my awareness to the places where his skin touches mine, making it almost impossible to think.

Ash is staring down at me, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to speak or grab the back of his neck and climb the man like a tree to bite his lip. He closes his eyes, and his fingers relax. He steps back, taking all his electric warmth with him.

I get a breath in and his words sink through the haze hovering over my brain. "What does she want?" I ask. "And why did you grab me like that to say it?"

His eyes come back to mine, and they are so sharp I'm almost surprised I don't start to bleed. "She wants something from you. I've never worked with someone so unprofessional. That woman is dangerous. And I shouldn't have." He swallows. "Grabbed you. I just—" He swallows. "I'm sorry."

"Just what?" It comes out a whisper, like if I say it too loud I'll scare away the answer.

"You." If he clenches his jaw any harder he'll crack teeth. His eyes flick to his arm where I caressed his skin like a freak.

"Oh. God, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…" What was I thinking? My voice sounds small. Pathetic. Like I'm some embarrassed, rejected teen.

"No." He closes his eyes for a long moment. Ash's chest rises as he pulls in a deep breath. "I'm sorry. That was unprofessional."

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