Love the Way You Kiss Me (Love The Way Duet 1)

Alone.

Part of me relaxes at knowing there’s nobody watching me. All night at Ella’s, I felt eyes on my back. Maybe I was anticipating the moment she’d come down the stairs and say my name into all that quiet.

Maybe I was hoping she would do just that.

But Ella slept all night, and then this morning she lifted that spoon to her lips like it wasn’t the most delicate, graceful thing I’d ever seen and told me about those songs she liked. I’ve already got them downloaded on my phone. They’re already taking up space there, waiting for me.

Old guilt crashes in at the thought.

I let it hit. The waves bring exhaustion with it.

I can keep it shut out for the most part. I’ve had two years to learn to live with it. And I do live with it. There’s no other choice. I’m alive, and I live with this hole, a wound, where someone else used to be. It feels like a deep gouge, but I know better. I’ve been to doctors about physical pain.

This is something else. Something I’ll have for always. Even the psychiatrist said so. Two little blue pills may help me sleep, but when I’m awake and conscious, that pain will never leave.

It’s the pain of hesitation. Of the loss of strict focus. Once upon a time, I fucked up. I wasn’t honest about what I wanted because I was afraid of the outcome.

Now, even thinking about exposing that truth—to anyone—feels like acid in open wounds.

Those wounds are best kept hidden. Tucked away like the words inside a closed book. Though I don’t know how long that will work, either. Cade’s been making noises for six months about how much time I spend on my own. I keep telling him that’s how I like it. No demands on my free time, except for when I spend the weekend with Damon. We’ll grab a beer every now and again. We’ll work on some project or another. Go to the shooting range or gym to have company. He knows loss as well as I do.

Even Damon’s made a few comments. I don’t know what they want from me. I work for The Firm as much as I can, and in my downtime, I try not to think about the shit that almost destroyed me.

It might still destroy me. The heat kicks on as I unzip my duffle bag. Two suits are already hung in the three-foot-wide closet. I go through the motions of this part of the job without much mental effort, just as I have for the past few years. The job keeps me moving. The requirements are all-consuming. So I take them all. Falling into place and performing as needed. This one, though …

It’s more complicated, what with the news I got about the trial.

Stripping off my shirt, I drop to the floor and do a set of twenty push-ups. Then another. Followed by four-count breaths. Twenty more push-ups and the burn seeps into my muscles, stiffening my shoulders. I hold the position and do twenty more, faster, letting the heat break along my skin. Holding the upright position and then I break in another four. After eight sets the crush of guilt around my lungs eases up, and I head into the tiny bathroom for a shower. My chest rises and falls deeper, needing to steady, but my mind still races.

Turning the metal knob, the squeak of the old piping is followed by a spray of ice-cold water. By the time I’ve stripped down, steam has started pouring into the stall.

This, at least, is standard for missions. An affordable motel. A series of night shifts. I’m used to places like these, and schedules like these. I know how my brother prefers to put money into family businesses, local places that are less well traveled. I also know that he prefers contracts with clear end dates.

We don’t have one this time. That’s yet another difference with this mission. We’re here as long as she needs me.

Needs us.

I work shampoo through my hair and try to ignore a tension in my back. You’re in the wrong place, it says as I stare blankly at bland white tile and let the hot spray batter against my chest. The fuck is wrong with me? My eyes close and I do what I can to shake the thoughts of her away. She doesn’t fucking need me. She’s only a distraction, although … It seems as if she may need a distraction as well. Someone to listen to. Someone to talk to. Someone to tell her it’s all right to feel whatever it is she’s feeling. That thought is what breaks the dam. I can’t stop picturing her sitting at the island in her kitchen, her bedhead swept back from her face and her eyes looking more alive for the first time, with a spark of mischief and the dare on her lips that there’s no conflict of interest.