Flirting with Disaster (Jackson: Girls' Night Out 2)

But then she wrote back.

Late is fine with me. Just let me know if you’re up for company.

Oh, shit. Even two hours later, he could still feel the way his baser instincts had surged to life with a rough jolt.

If you’re up for company, she’d said. If. Which was how he found himself in his car at 8:00 p.m. staring at her texts and unsuccessfully trying to curb his need.

He opened the text box.

Just wrapped up the last meeting. Are you still up?

“Please don’t be up,” he said out loud, even as every nerve in

his body prayed for the opposite.

He waited for a few moments, aware that his was the last car in the courthouse lot and pretending that meant he was good at his job. He was good, after all. Everything was in place for the protective duty tonight. The morning schedule was set up, starting with a 6:00 a.m. sweep of the courthouse and the highway leading to it. He was done. Even the boss needed dinner and sleep. Or something better.

His phone chimed. He cursed. His heart raced as he dared to look.

It’s 8:00 p.m. Of course I’m still up, silly. Come check my perimeter?

“Damn it,” he said, the words rough with strained laughter.

She wasn’t who she said she was, but she was exactly who he’d suspected. She wasn’t a criminal. Not really. She was a woman on the run from trouble.

He could just tell her the truth. He could confess. Beg for her forgiveness and tell her he was here to help.

But she’d run not just from bad guys, but from the cops, as well. The FBI had tagged her as a person of interest. She’d probably helped her father hide. And if she’d been paying taxes this whole time, then she’d stolen someone else’s identity to do it.

Even with all that playing through his head, he started his car and hit the highway toward her place.

He needed time to review the details. He needed time to think. He wouldn’t be able to think when he was near her. But in the end, he drove straight past the turnoff to the judge’s and headed to Isabelle’s place because she’d asked him to.

She answered the door with a big smile that would’ve been marred by the streak of green paint along her cheek if he hadn’t found the paint adorable.

“You’ve been plying your ghastly trade, I see,” he said.

She looked down at the spatter of white paint on her black sweater. “I have. But no cadavers were harmed in the process, I promise.” She’d been premed in college before she’d dropped out after her father had fled prosecution during her senior year. These were things he should have found out during casual conversation. Instead, he’d found them in the FBI file.

Tom ducked his head and stepped past her.

“Did you have dinner?” she asked.

“I didn’t, but I’m fine.”

“Listen, I’m no Jill, but I can make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. Assuming you like them made with American cheese and slightly stale bread. I promise you can’t even tell once it’s fried in butter.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said, happy to hear her laugh as he followed her toward the kitchen.

She got him a glass of ice water when he said he couldn’t have wine, then set a pan on the stove. “Thanks for last night,” she said, as if that were normal conversation.

Tom managed to swallow the water in his mouth with only a minimal amount of sputtering. “You’re welcome,” he rasped. “I mean, thank you, too.”

“It was nice,” she said, with a glance that swept down his whole body.

“Yes.” He was trying to think of a polite way to say, “I also really enjoyed fucking you,” but she changed the subject before he could manage it.

“Did you have a long day? You look stressed.”