“I’m not leaving.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” I protest, spinning back around. “You’re supposed to sleep in the surveillance van with the rest of your underlings. You know — around the corner, out of sight, so you don’t tip off the bad guys with your lurking.”
“That was the old deal.”
“Oh? And there’s a new deal I’m unaware of?”
“Yeah.”
“Which is…?
“I’m not leaving.”
My jaw clenches to contain a scream. I can tell from the stubborn set to Conor’s shoulders that nothing I say is going to sway him on this decision. And after nearly two full days without any sleep, I’m far too exhausted to fight. Worn far too thin to spend any more time in his presence, trying to decipher the thoughts occurring behind those indigo eyes.
“Fine,” I grit out. “You can crash on the couch.”
“You have four guest rooms.”
“That’s right, I do,” I murmur sweetly. “Forguests.Not for prickly FBI agents with boundary issues and an insufferable need to be right all the time.”
“Fine.” He smirks darkly. “But if you get scared of the boogeyman in the middle of the night and need someone to save you, you’ll have only yourself to blame.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Huffing, I turn and walk out of the kitchen. “Or do. I couldn’t care less.”
I’d swear I hear him chuckle as I climb the stairs to the second floor.
* * *
Conor Asshole Gallagher.
I curse his name as I slam my bedroom door shut. I curse it again as I strip out of my yoga outfit — which I never want to wear ever again, so long as I live — and hop into the shower in my ensuite bathroom. I curse it a third time as I shampoo, a fourth as I condition, and a fifth as I let the water stream down on my head in a soothing torrent, washing away the grime of the past two days.
He’s infuriating, I seethe, brushing out my wet hair in the fogged up bathroom mirror.A total alpha male with zero regard for anyone’s feelings except his own.
He’s annoying,I rant, tugging on my favorite silk nightgown and climbing under my covers.A bossy, infuriating, ape of a man who cares more about his job prospects than the people he’s supposed to protect.
I toss and turn for hours, unable to sleep despite the anvils pressing down on my eyelids. The thought of Conor in my house, one floor away, stretched out on my gray sectional, is distracting enough to hold sleep at bay.
The nerve of that man!
Barging into my home, my life, my head. Analyzing me like I’m some puzzle to piece together, some intriguing set of clues to figure out. I have half a mind to storm down there and shove him out the front door to sleep on the damn porch swing. (Considering he’s two hundred pounds of pure muscle, I decide it’s probably bestnotto act on that particular impulse.)
As the hours slip by, sleep eluding me like the fickle bitch she is, my brain keeps wandering to the man on my sofa. He’s still such a stranger to me. I know virtually nothing about him — not his favorite sports teams or where he grew up, not where he lives now or his relationship status.
He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, so I assume he’s not married. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s unattached. The man may be a certifiable asshole but, much as it pains me to admit… he’s not entirely unpleasant to look at. Some —not me!— might even say he’s devastatingly handsome in a roguish, unpolished sort of way.
But who would put up with him?I ask myself, scoffing into the dark.Any sane girl would run for the hills after a week with his overbearing neanderthal antics.
Then again…a small voice pipes up from some remote corner of my brain before I can banish it.There’s something sort of nice about a man with a protective streak. Not like Paul, who treated me as a possession to be owned. Just… someone who knows the value of what he has and isn’t afraid to protect it.
Punching my pillow into a more comfortable shape, I roll onto my side and scowl into the darkness. I don’t even know why I’m thinking about these things. I can barely stand Conor — it’s not like I’m interested in him romantically. I’m not interested inanyoneromantically.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
As soon as my divorce is finalized, I’ll have no use for entanglements of any kind. Love is lost to me. After all, it’s only ever led me astray in the past. The last time I followed my heart for a man, it was Paul. I’d be crazy to ever risk doing it again.