Detained

She shifted so she was sitting across his thighs instead. “I care. I want to understand.”

“It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

He sat up and hauled her into his chest. “Got me so damn relaxed you rearranged my brain cells.”

“I did?”

“Clever piece of work. Goddamn gorgeous too. Have I told you that?”

He told her regularly, with his eyes, with his words, and with his body. Suddenly she felt the acid sting of tears. She pushed away from him, tried to hide her face in her hair.

“Ah, what’s wrong, Lois? What did I say to upset you?”

She met his eyes. “We’re not doing the interview.”

“We’re not? Why not? I thought we agreed to do it days ago.”

“Because you’re not my job. This,” she put her hand on his face, “us, it’s not my job.”

“But I screwed with your job and I can fix that for you.”

“I came after you because of my job and look at everything that happened. I won’t come after you again. No job is worth that.”

Will turned his face so he could kiss her palm, and then took her hand in his. “You’re a professional, you‘ll do what you need to do. I’ll be ready for you.”

“I’m a professional and I’m in bed with my interview subject. How professional does that sound to you?” She shifted to sit beside him, sat cross-legged facing him. “And please don’t make a joke or an insult from that.”

He knew enough not to reach for her. “I wasn’t going to.”

But he had once. He’d gone so far as to suggest he might buy her like a hotel suite or a car.

“Ah fuck, Darcy.” Now he reached, but she moved back and he dropped his hand, taking it to his head and scrubbing at his hair. “I was in the nuthouse. I’m sorry. I hated myself so much for that I took out several thousand dollars worth of glass and two good hands to pay for what I said to you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. You have a job to do, and it’s important to you. That’s why you’ll come after me with everything you’ve got.”

“No. I won’t.”

He made a growling sound in the back of his throat, and threw himself back against the pillow. “Tell me what’s going on here?”

“There’s no hidden agenda. I don’t want to interview you anymore.”

“Okay. What else?” He was looking at the ceiling as though the answer might be on a digital display up there.

“That’s it.”

“I might’ve lost my ability to fathom the printed word but I could always read you.” He turned his head and pinned her with his, ‘you will do as your told stare’. “Cough it up.”

She couldn’t pretend this didn’t matter. “What’s going to happen to us?”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t want this to be the end. I don’t want us to be a series of intense experiences in confined locations I look back on with fond amusement.”

He spun around on the bed to face her and sat cross-legged as well, one hand massaging his repaired knee. “We’re not confined here. It’s not like we’re in detention.”