Page 21 of The Defender
Something tugged at my gut. Hard.
I knew she was an intern and that all internships eventually ended, but I’d foolishly assumed she’d take a full-time job at Blackcastle afterward. She was a great nutritionist, and her dad was the manager, for Christ’s sake.
“I see.” I cleared my throat, not wanting to dwell on why the prospect of her leaving upset me so much. “Speaking of Blackcastle, I forgot to tell you. I talked to your dad last week.” I summarized my conversation with Coach. “I told him I’m staying at a hotel, but I’m not sure he buys it. We’ll have to be extra careful.”
“The police still don’t have any leads?”
“I don’t think they’re even looking.” I kept my expression studiously neutral. I’d recovered from my anxiety attack on Friday, but any mention of the intruder situation still sent a wave of unease through me.
Brooklyn groaned. “They have to. I don’t want you living here forever.”
“Because you find me too irresistible and you’re afraid you’ll throw yourself at me sooner or later,” I said with a wise nod. “I understand.”
“Not that again.” She crossed her arms. Thankfully, she was wearing a bra today. “Can you think of any other conversation topic? This one’s getting old.”
“Old but true.”
My knee accidentally grazed hers. An electric spark jolted up my leg, and from the way her breath caught, she felt it too.
We joked about each other’s self-control, but there was a glimmer of truth to our words that neither of us wanted to acknowledge—an ember of attraction buried beneath the wisecracks and feigned nonchalance. Maybe it was purely physical, or maybe it was something more. Either way, it was safer to treat it as a joke. There was no risk or vulnerability in a joke.
“You’re insufferable,” Brooklyn said, moving her leg away. Yet she lingered, her body angled toward mine as if the distance between us hadn’t quite registered yet.
“I’ve been called worse.”
She huffed out a laugh.
A new silence fell, lighter than the last but simmering with something unspoken.
Heat pulsed across my skin, and it took me a second to realize it wasn’t metaphorical but literal—sweat beaded on my forehead and dampened my shirt, making it stick to my skin. I’d been so distracted by Brooklyn that I hadn’t noticed the thick, suffocating warmth until there was a lull in our conversation.
“Is the AC broken?” I asked, breaking the quiet. “I’m roasting in here.”
Most London flats didn’t have air conditioning. Brooklyn’s was one of the rare exceptions, but I didn’t hear its steady hum in the background. The weather was unusually warm for October, and we still needed to run the AC in order to sleep comfortably.
“It gave out this morning. I already let the landlord know, but he can’t fix it until—what are you doing?” Brooklyn squeaked when I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it on the floor.
It helped. Barely.
“What does it look like? I’m cooling off.” Now that I’d noticed the heat, I couldn’tstopnoticing it. It seemed to intensify with every passing second. If I splashed water on myself, it would probably sizzle. “I’d take my bottoms off too, but I figured you wouldn’t appreciate me walking around without trousers.”
“I don’t appreciate you walking around without a shirt again,” Brooklyn sputtered. “Put it back on! We just talked about this the other night.”
“Relax, buttercup.” I hopped off my stool and strode to the fridge. I opened the door, a welcome blast of cold air hitting mein the face. “You work for a men’s football club. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“That’s at work, not in my own home. It’s different.”
I grabbed a water from the bottom shelf. “How so?”
“It just is. This is the fourth time you’ve taken your shirt off in front of me, and you’ve only been here for a week.”
She’d counted. Interesting.
I closed the fridge, turned, and cocked an eyebrow. “Remaining fully clothed in communal spaces wasn’t one of your flat rules.”
“It is now.”
“You can’t retroactively add a new item to the flat rules.”
