Page 30 of Dirty Quinn
I can tell something is up with Mack. He thinks he’s so closed off and hidden, but really, he’s transparent as glass. At least to me. I have a feeling it’s something to do with his job, since he’s been by my side non-stop since the explosion. And I don’t see how he’s able to do that without having to call in or check-in or something. The FBI usually has a leash on him that is fairly short and tight—even with how much of a lone wolf they allow him to be.
“I can tell you are awake.” I hate how my voice sounds, as though I’m still mostly asleep when really I feel almost awake. “Your eyes keep moving under your lids and your brain is smoking with all the thoughts churning and burning inside.”
He smiles first before looking at me. And my god if that smile doesn’t shoot all the warm and fuzzy feels straight to my heart every time. His eyes open slowly, and I find myself captured in his gaze. Not intentionally, but definitely willingly. “Hey, you got that analogy right,” he teases.
I try to play it off like it’s no big deal, but inside I’m preening with pride. Because I don’t care how smart you are, the English language with all of its homonyms, homophones, idioms, and analogies—it’s confusing as hell. And I get it wrong all the time. So, fuck yes, will I feel good when I’m on point.
“Good morning, beautiful.” He kisses me on the forehead, his breath hot against my skin. He smells like sleep and sweat, but still all male and Mack-like.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asks me at the same time that I ask him. It makes me laugh whenever that happens. But it also makes me happy that we are on the same wavelength so often. He motions for me to speak first.
“As well as can be expected. You?”
“Same,” he says and we kind of stop talking after that. My guess is he’s feeling weird about whatever is going on. And I know that I’m ready to confront him about what’s going on, so he’ll talk to me. And even if I’m not right about something happening with his job, I am right about him acting differently.
“What’s going on, Mack?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re acting weird, you’ve been with me non-stop, you haven’t checked in to work at all.”
“Can’t a guy worry about his woman without her getting all up in his business about it?” He tries to make his voice sound gruff and serious, but I can see the smile behind it. That and the joy in his eyes that I’m awake and complaining once again.
I do my best to level my gaze at him, which is difficult with two blackened eyes and a sore neck. Regardless, it works.
“Fine,” he sighs. “I have to tell you at some point anyway. I took a leave of absence from the bureau after you got hurt.”
I’m not sure how to feel about that. If I should be happy. I mean, of course my initial instinct is relief because if he’s not with the bureau, he can’t affect what I’m about to do. Which I’m sure will be worse than all the things I’ve done before. Combined.
The rational side of me realizes he has to work. I mean, he can’t NOT work, right?
“What will you do for work?” I ask, despite myself.
“It’s just a leave of absence, beautiful. Don’t get your feathers all ruffled for nothing. It’s like calling in sick every day for a few weeks in a row.”
“Can you do that?” I ask.
He chuckles and runs his hands through his hair, trying to fix the bed head. “Well, I did, so I guess so.”
I’m always amazed at how generous the US government is with its citizens. I know some people complain about the bureaucracy—but really, a leave of absence? From a job? That would never happen in Russia. You either have a job or you don’t. There is no in-between like what Mack describes.
“What does this mean?” I ask finally.
“I’m going to take care of you, make sure you get back into fighting shape and all that.”
“So, you come to my house every day and be my nursemaid?” I ask only partially joking. While I like the idea of Mack caring for me, I’m not sure I can really relax enough to let anyone do that unless I’m paying them and can make demands. Like my idea of a hired nurse who can wipe my ass.
I shudder at the thought of Mack and toilet paper going anywhere near there.
“Is the idea of my helping you so horrible?”
“No, no, I was thinking of something else.”
He looks at me skeptically for a moment before continuing, “No concerns about me just moving in.”
That stops me. If I’d been drinking, I would have choked. I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat or twelve. And my lungs just quit working altogether.
“Move in?”
