Page 40 of Tangled Like Us
Radio in hand,I exit the bathroom on the second-floor landing.
Left and right bedrooms belong to me and Quinn Oliveira: currently the youngest guy on the team. He’s done a good job his first year on-duty.
Sometimes he can get too worked up. Especially when the girls get antagonized—but hearing a bunch of assholes rail on Jane and not being able to snap back has even been hard for me.
Floorboards creak as I head downstairs; wooden staircase is so narrow I feel like I need to turn sideways to fit. Brick walls squeezing me in on either side.
I’m not complaining.
The three-bedroom, one-bath townhouse may barely be 900 square feet, but it has a washer-dryer, working plumbing, no leaky ceilings or musty odors. Compared to where I grew up, it’s the fucking Ritz.
I reach the bottom stair in the snug living room: a brick fireplace, bare mantel, a leather couch, and a high-top table with some stools. No space for much else. Guys keep it pretty clean, especially since SFO holds some meetings here.
I hear the sound of squeaking floorboards coming from the cramped kitchen. Quinn is probably awake getting chow.
I walk through the archway, mentally listing out what I need: oil, a matchbook, small bowl, a shot glass—unholy fuckingshit.
I halt to a dead stop, towel hung low on my waist.
Jane is in my kitchen.
As in Jane Eleanor Cobalt, as in my client, as in the girl I just fantasized fucking not even thirty minutes ago.
I’m going to hell.
She’s immobile, her eyes widening on me. She rarely comes into security’s townhouse; it’s more likely I’d be in hers.
“I, um…” She struggles for words. Fridge is open, a half-gallon of milk in her hand. “I was just…” Intrigue drops her gaze to my unshaved chest and carved muscles, the ridges of my eight-pack, and she mutters a breathy, “Oh my God.”
This isn’t fucking good.
I’m trying not to run my eyes over any part of her body. I’m trying not to place a single adjective against her name. She’s just Jane.
Just my client. Unique in every wa—unfuck this before you fuck it.
“Jane.” My strict voice tenses the air more. It’s my normal tone. “How are you doing?”
“I’m…” She shakes cobwebs out of her head. “I’ve been well, just next door—which you already know…because you’re off-duty.” She stares unblinkingly at me, cheeks beet-red.
I keep holding her gaze, the temperature cranking up.Fuck.
Being off-duty shifts our dynamic into gray territory.
I’m twenty-eight. Not in a co-ed dorm, but this awkward, tension-filled run-in feels made for college. And I need to keep this professional.
I’m in a fucking towel.
Yeah, I’ve also been in a jockstrap in front of her before, but that was different. That was on the tour bus with SFO. Boundaries weren’t this personal. This is justmeandher.In a small as fuck kitchen.
I open my mouth to speak, but Jane beats me to it.
“If I would’ve known you were here like this…I wouldn’t have…” She’s tongue-tied. “I’m so,sosorry.”
I step forward.
She startles herself at my movement, and milk slips out of her grasp.
The plastic jug crashes at her feet, and milk spills all over the floorboards, the cap coming loose.
