"That sounds really not fun," I admitted, getting a snort out of him. "What did you think of me at first then, if you always think the worst?"
"I thought you were drugged," he reminded me. "And the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," he added, the words making my stomach clench hard. Because he said them. But also because he clearly meant them as well.
"So, you like less conventionally attractive women then?"
"What?"
"You said you always think the worst. Which means being pretty, in your eyes, is bad."
"Actually, Shy, I was letting you know that I see you."
"You see me," I repeated, not sure how he wanted me to take that.
"Yeah, I see you," he repeated, unhelpfully.
"I'm not sure what you mean by that," I admitted. "What do you see?" I added when he said nothing.
His gaze, gooey and unexpectedly intoxicating, made my heart flip-flop in my chest as his arm rose.
I swear time slowed down as I watched that hand make its way upward before it finally slid up over my shoulder to rest on the side of my neck.
A shiver moved through my insides as his thumb moved outward, sliding across the line of my jaw toward my chin then back again.
It was nothing.
A barely-there touch.
But I swear it ignited a wildfire in my system. It burned through me, scalding every inch of me, and leaving devastation in its wake when a knock at the door had us both springing apart as if we'd gotten caught doing something we shouldn't have.
And as McCoy moved away from me, leaving me to lean back against the counter because my damn legs felt weak, I realized that was exactly what happened.
We definitely should not have been looking at each other like that, touching like that.
Things were complicated enough. The last thing I needed was to be making heart-eyes at my damn bodyguard. A man I'd shot for God's sake. A man who was showing us kindness he didn't exactly owe us. If something happened with us, and it went south, what would that mean for my sister and me?
I mean, I had no idea what we would do if the Henchmen hadn't been willing to help us. Leaving town, I guess. But going where? Doing what? And would they come for us?
Actually, Shy, I was letting you know that I see you.
Ugh.
Even just repeating it in my head was giving me that fluttery feeling in my chest. Because it was clear now what he meant. He saw me. And he liked what he saw.
"Hey, Ayanna," McCoy said, snapping me out of my head to see the woman from the salon standing there wearing a black dress, and not looking happy about it since McCoy had told me she was a woman of bold fashion statements.
"You owe me, McCoy," she declared by way of greeting, giving him small eyes. "A little warning that the elevator is out would have been nice," she added, shaking her head. "I have a car full of shit I might not have brought had I known."
"Hence why I didn't mention it," McCoy said, giving her a ghost of a smile.
"Babe," she said, looking over at me. "Tell me you have some coffee you can throw on ice for me. I'm gonna need it after this."
"I can do that," I agreed. "But let me hel—"
"Nope," Ayanna cut me off, shaking her head. "The way I hear it, you need to be staying inside. Same with the dead man over here," she said, jerking her head toward McCoy. "I've been with a man in the security business for long enough that I know when you fuck up for even a minute is when shit goes wrong. So you guys hang tight. I will get the shit. I guess this is one way to drop those extra few baby pounds," she added, shrugging. "I mean, did you really need a whole set of TV dinner stands?" Ayanna added on her way out, shaking her head at McCoy.
"You made her get TV dinner stands?" I asked as McCoy grabbed the bags in the hallway, and moved back inside.
"We might be in here for a while. I figured we should make shit as comfortable as possible. She's gonna haul up a new blow-up mattress too," he added, dropping the bags on the counter.
He wasn't lying. And by the fourth trip, Ayanna was letting out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
There were TV dinner stands, a blow-up mattress, sheets, pillows, and two rolling suitcases that—I imagined—held McCoy's clothing and personal care items.
"Is this really necessary?" Ayanna grumbled on her final trip in the door, carting a box for a brand new TV along with her.
"You brought your TV?" I asked, brows furrowing.
"He bought a TV for this," Ayanna corrected.
"You don't have one in the living room," McCoy reminded me.