Page 30 of Surrender to Me
“Good.” He takes an intentional step closer, and I breathe him in again—spice and danger and powerful masculinity that makes my skin tingle. “Because trying to run in the middle of the night would be a mistake, Allie. A big one.”
The threat should terrify me. Instead, heat pools low in my belly, and I hate myself for the reaction.
I turn away, focusing on the kitchen. “I should get dinner started.”
“Sounds good.” But he doesn’t move, and I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I open cupboards, taking inventory.
Even without the stop we made at the grocery store, there are enough supplies here for basic meals—canned goods, pasta, some spices. In the freezer, I find packages of ground beef.
“Because it’s so late, how about pasta and sauce tonight?” I pull out a box of penne, grateful for something mundane to focus on. “With that bread we bought. We can make the stew tomorrow.”
“Sounds practical. Wine?”
When I turn, he’s already moving, grabbing a red from the small refrigerator.
Maybe it will help take the edge off. “Please.”
While he opens the bottle with economical motions, I fill a pot with water, then busy myself with opening the jar of marinara.
The cork comes free with a soft pop.
He fills one glass, and the liquid catches the overhead light. “None for you?”
“I’m on duty.”
A harsh reminder of my situation and the fact he sees me as an assignment.
When he hands me the stem, our fingers brush.
The unexpected contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and for a heartbeat, we’re frozen. His thumb traces across my knuckle—just once—before he steps back.
Shaking, needing something to do with my hands, I take a small, fortifying sip while he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.
The wine is good—better than I expected from a safe house stash. It warms me from the inside, loosening some of the tension I’ve been carrying since this morning. Since he kissed me. Since everything changed.
Desperately wanting to get out of my own head, I search for a safe topic of conversation. “How many safe houses does Hawkeye have?”
“Classified.”
“Is everything classified with you?”
Stryker grins. “Most things.” He leans against the counter, close enough that I’m aware of his every breath. “Part of the job.”
I glance at him sideways. “What’s not classified?”
“My coffee preference, as you already know. Black, no sugar.” His almost smile appears again, the one that makes my pulse skip. “What about you? What’s not classified in Allie’s life?”
The question hits too close to home. Everything about me is classified, from my real name to why I’m really running. But I can give him something small, something that doesn’t matter. “I hate mushrooms,” I say, dumping pasta into the now-boiling water. “Can’t stand the texture.”
“Noted.” He adds the sauce to a pan, the smell of oregano and basil filling the small kitchen. “What else?”
“I read romance novels when I can’t sleep. Love cats and dogs. I haven’t been on a real vacation in twenty years.” The last one slips out before I can stop it, too honest, too revealing.
He pauses stirring the sauce. “Seriously?”
“Work keeps me busy.” Another lie. The truth is, even after I stopped moving around with my dad, I haven’t felt safe enough to relax. Then he was killed. And I became a target.
“That’s a shame.” Styker’s voice is softer now, and when I look at him, there’s a tenderness in his steel-gray eyes.
