Page 19 of Rogue Mission
“I was just so caught up, and I acted like a thoughtless bastard.”
Guilt devours my insides until I'm hollow.
“I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was here to rescue you when I got you out of the ceiling.”
She narrows her gaze and pokes a finger into my chest plate. “You were too busy looking at my boobs.”
Yep.
The tips of my ears start to feel hot.
“Guilty,” I admit, a grin tugging at one side of my mouth. “But how could I not? They were right there in my face. I mean RIGHT there.”
“Oh stop!” With a moan, she laughs. “It was pretty terrible.”
“That wasn't terrible in my book. Terrible is sleeping in a muddy trench when it's forty degrees,” I reply. “Sorry I was an ass,” I add sincerely.
She laughs again, more nervous this time. “It's okay. But don't expect to get away without payback.”
I tuck that loose strand of hair back again, feeling the silky texture of her dark curls before letting my hand drift down to her shoulder.
I stare at her, gut punched. Again.
Rosalie's an intricate puzzle that I want to solve. That's something I've never felt about a woman before.
The red flag starts waving. Not about her. About me.
Too bad I'm going to ignore it.
“Duly noted, I'd just appreciate it if you waited until we're out of enemy territory,” I say about her desire for payback.
“I can do that.” She looks up at me with a trusting look that buckles something inside of my chest.
When I rip my gaze away and look at the floor, and I realize she's still barefoot.
“Forgot to give you these.” I pull out the pair of small shoes from my left cargo pocket.
With a frown, Rosalie looks at them, looks at me. Looks at them again.
I expect her to do something. Do anything. But she just exhales.
“Tell me they're not the wrong size.”
She laughs, scratching her head as she wiggles her toes.
“No, those are definitely mine. I'm sorry, I'm just in shock that you remembered to grab them,” she adds softly. “That's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
The words hit harder than they should.
How is that possible? Something as simple as remembering her shoes should not be a foreign concept to her.
It feels weirdly natural when I kneel down in front of her and tap the bare curve of her calf.
She lifts one foot, letting me slide the narrow black shoe on. As I do, her hands find my shoulders for balance. Like we’ve done this before.
Her touch is warm and far more powerful than the kick of a shotgun.
“Other one,” I rasp, huskily.
