Page 20 of The Defender
It wasn’t about harm done. It was about the violation—the knowledge that someone had been in my personal space, touching my things and doing God knew what else before I came home. Who was to say they hadn’t rifled through my drawers or planted secret cameras everywhere?
That kind of unease burrowed under your skin and stayed there, no matter how many locks I changed or new security measures I installed.
You can always move back home.
My throat tightened, my mind spinning images of what that would look like—the constant checking over my shoulder, startling at every creak and rattle. The vague sense of dread every time I walked through the door. The inability to feel safe in my own fucking house.
Yes, I could hire a physical security team, but I hated the thought of strangers hovering over me, watching my every move. Besides, bodyguards wouldn’t change anything. My hang-ups were psychological. I could hire a hundred bodyguards, and the thought of sleeping at home would still fuck with my head.
I couldn’t do it. Not yet.
The violation was too fresh. I’d get over it with time or maybe therapy, but those things took, well, time, and I didn’t have any to spare right now. Not when it was the middle of the season and we were contenders in the UCL. I needed to be laser focused on the game, which meant I couldn’t return home until the police caught the perp (unlikely) or the thought of sleeping in my own bedroom didn’t make me break out in a cold sweat.
Until then, I had to stay put at Brooklyn’s place—no matter how much she tempted me.
I didn’t talk to Brooklyn again all weekend. I went to training on Saturday and spent Sunday at Adil’s house, playing video games. I needed a little space from her after our weird, tension-charged moment on Friday.
I’d teased her about staring at me as a joke. I felt her eyes on me the entire time I’d been vacuuming, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to get under her skin. But fuck, being that close to her and seeing how flustered she was…it wrecked my self-control. The fact she hadn’t been wearing a bra was the cherry on top.
Even now, days later, the memory of her nipples straining against her T-shirt brought a rush of heat to my groin.
I willed the image away as I entered the flat on Monday evening and tossed my keys in the bowl near the door. The last thing I wanted was to return home with an ill-advised erection.
The faint sound of computer keys clacking came from the kitchen. I followed it and found Brooklyn sitting at the tiled island. A pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose while an untouched green smoothie sat on the table next to her. Her brow furrowed with concentration as she typed away.
She was so engrossed in her work that she didn’t hear me enter. Every once in a while, she’d stop typing to scribble something in her notebook. Her face would light up, and she’d return to her laptop with renewed zeal.
The corners of my mouth kicked up. She looked inexplicably adorable and somewhat intimidating when she was so focused, like a kitten who wouldn’t hesitate to claw your eyes out if you interrupted mealtime.
“You should take a break,” I said. “That smoothie looks too good to go to waste.”
“Jesus!” Brooklyn startled. She slammed her laptop shut, her face turning pink. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to watch your dinner get cold.” I walked over and pulled up the stool next to hers.
“I’m not that hungry.”
“Too busy writing one-star reviews on TripAdvisor?”
“Too busy compiling a list of ways to kill someone without getting caught.” She gave me a sweet smile. “For curiosity’s sake, of course.”
“Of course,” I drawled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Our eyes connected, and a beat of charged silence hummed between us before I tapped a gentle finger against the temple of her glasses. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
“I don’t. I mean, I do, but I don’t need them.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in an uncharacteristically self-conscious gesture. “I only wear them when I need to be productive. It’s a weird trigger. When I put them on, my brain instantly switches to work mode.”
It was a good thing she didn’t wear them all the time because those glasses were sexy as hell, but I kept that thought to myself.
“What are you working on?”
“Updated meal plans for the team. My performance evaluation is coming up, so I want to make sure that they’re, um, good.”
Normally, I would’ve zeroed in on her suspicious verbal stumble if I weren’t so distracted by another part of her reply.
“Final evaluation, huh?” I said casually. “What are you doing after the internship?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
