I finally run out of breath… and out of words. In the silence that follows, a fierce blush slowly steals its way up my neck and over my cheeks as I realize Conor is watching me with unmistakable amusement.
Why can’t you ever just keep your mouth shut, Shelby?
Conor’s lips are twitching and his eyes have turned ultra warm. Up close, the effect is dizzying. It’s like staring into two melty blue galaxies, swimming with stars.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me, Hunt.”
I snort. “Did the paramedics check you for brain damage?”
He takes a step closer, forcing me backward, crowding my body up against the wall beside the bed. I feel my spine hit the hard plaster and lock my knees to keep them from going weak when those constellation eyes come within six inches of mine. Before I can bolt, Conor’s hands come up to rest on either side of my head, effectively caging me in.
“You’re pissed I locked you up here alone, instead of staying with you.”
My jaw clenches tightly to contain my comeback.
“You’re pissed I sent Sykes here today instead of coming myself.”
My chin jerks up but I don’t refute his words.
“Hunt.” He blows out a breath. “I’m the head of my division. Do you know what that means?”
“I’m sure you’re simplydyingto tell me.”
“It means,” he says tiredly. “I’m in charge of all the organized crime cases that come through the Boston Bureau. I’m at the top of the chain of command. I have a lot of people who report to me. And though this case is our top priority right now, there’s more than one file on my desk at the moment that requires attention.”
“I understand that!”
“Then why the fuck are you so pissed off about it?”
“That’s not what I’m pissed about!” I retort, breathing hard. “I’m pissed because—”
Because I let myself believe this was more than just a job for you. That I was more than just another file on your desk to be dealt with. That what we were doing here…
Mattered.
I bite down on the words before they escape.
God, I’m such an idiot.
“Waiting on pins and needles here, Hunt.”
“I… I’m…”
My lips press together as I search for something to say. Foranythingto say, except the scary truth that’s suddenly staring me straight in the face:
This is not Conor Gallagher’s life.
His life is what happens when he walks away from me at the end of the day. His life is outside this conversation, outside this crappy motel room, outside anything having to do with me. And I’m not sure when I started to care, or why it bothers me so much. I’m not sure of anything at all, anymore.
“Let it go,” I whisper, voice stripped of all anger. “Please… just let it go.”
A fissure of concern appears between his eyes. “Now you’re really freaking me the fuck out, Hunt.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
His jaw clenches. “Like hell it doesn’t.”
“Just go home, Gallagher.”