Page 32 of Code Name: Atticus
“Why?” he asked like I had him.
“Because admitting I still want you means admitting I might get hurt.”
“I wouldneverintentionally hurt you, Brenna.”
“It’s not about that. I’m more worried about what happens when this assignment ends and we go back to our separate lives.”
“We don’t have to go back to separate lives.”
I wriggled out of his arms, returned to my seat at the bar, and took a bit of French toast, tasting nothing. “Don’t we? Your job takes you all over the world on assignments you can’t talk about. Mine keeps me in Washington, prosecuting cases.”
He returned to his seat like I had. “I don’t know. But what I’m sure of is that the attraction between us, how much we want each other, isn’t going to stop just because we say out loud that we shouldn’t be feeling it.”
I studied his face, looking for signs that he was just saying what he thought I wanted to hear. All I saw was honesty. “What about Luke?”
“We’re adults, Brenna. Not kids.” He leaned back in his seat. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I can take him.” He flexed a muscle, and I smiled. It quickly left my face when his brow furrowed.
“I called Admiral on my way here.”
“Yeah?”
“I shouldn’t have. This is your investigation, and as he so kindly reminded me, I should’ve discussed the issue with Luke with you first. Not him. He also suggested I refrain from mentioning I called him.”
“I appreciate you telling me, particularly since he advised you not to.”
“I’m sorry, Brenna.”
“It’s okay. No harm, no foul.”
He stood, but not entirely upright, picked up his plate, and cringed.
“You look like you’re in pain.”
“Back’s giving me issues. It’ll ease up. Not used to how damp it is here…” He continued to mutter a myriad of excuses that I stopped listening to.
“Are you finished eating?”
His eyes flared. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Head upstairs, and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
I read his face well enough to recognize he was attempting a witty comeback, but nothing came to him quickly enough.
“So, uh…”
“You heard me. Go upstairs.”
The heat I saw in his cheeks before he walked away had nothing to do with embarrassment. Which meant I knew what I was getting myself into. And I wanted it. Wanted him. I wasn’t naive enough to think the massage I intended to give him wouldn’t turn into something more. I stuck my plate in the sink, washed my hands, and climbed the stairs. With every step, I thought through whether this was a good or bad idea, but when I reached the landing, one answer hadn’t won out over the other.
I found Atticus sitting on the edge of the bed. My side, not his. When he looked up and his eyes met mine, he smiled. “You sure about this?”
“About what?” I asked, feigning ignorance for about two seconds before we both laughed. “On your stomach, Finch.”
He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and my breath caught. I’d seen glimpses of his physique before, but being able to look rather than glance was different. His broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist, and every muscle along the way was defined. But that wasn’t all. The scars scattered on his body told stories of a dangerous career.
He stretched out and folded his arms under his head. The morning light played across the planes of his back, highlighting a bullet wound near his right shoulder blade and what looked like a knife scar along his ribs.
I climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, and placed my hands on his shoulders. The moment my palms made contact with his skin, I felt the jolt of awareness that always seemed to spark between us.
