I blink hard, not sure how to process that.
Did Conor I-don’t-have-a-romantic-bone-in-my-body Gallagher just call my face a work of art?
His hand reaches across the gap between our pillows. I hold my breath as his thumb lands squarely on my bottom lip, not daring to move a single inch. With a gentle swipe, he wipes off the smudge of color using the pad of his finger. The lipstick leaves a red stain on his skin.
“There,” he murmurs, staring at my tingling mouth intently. “That’s better.”
He’s still touching my lip and I’m barely breathing. There’s a flutter of nerves in the pit of my stomach. They feel almost like butterflies. But that’s crazy. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old woman, for god’s sake. I couldn’tpossiblybe experiencing something akin to a schoolgirl crush.
Right?
That would be insane.
Because I’m done with love.
A dedicated spinster.
Even if I did, just yesterday, experience the hottest kiss of my life against the wall of a dingy motel room.
Call it a farewell tour. A retirement party. A last lap around the old libido track, before hanging up my ovaries, so to speak.
Except… Conor’s not looking at me like I’m a spinster. Oh, no. He’s looking at me like I’m a midnight snack. One meant to be consumed in the dark, without any restraint or semblance of self-control.
“I’ll just go take this off, then,” I blurt, sitting up abruptly.
His brows lift.
“The makeup!” A blush steals over my cheeks. “I’ll take off themakeup.”
Not my dress.
Definitely not.
Not that I’d necessarily object to someoneelseremoving it…
Shelby Quinn Hunt, you little slut! Get it together!
Cursing myself for even allowing such a thought to enter my warped brain, I practically vault off the bed and race for the sanctuary of the bathroom. I just need a little space. A little time away from those intense blue eyes, to sort through my own thoughts. To get my emotions back in check.
Transference,I remind myself.That’s all you’re experiencing. That’s all this… this…attachmentyou’re feeling for him is. A perfectly reasonable physiological response to stress and adrenaline.
After I’ve removed my makeup, brushed my teeth, French braided my hair, and changed into a black silk nightie —why, oh why, didn’t I pack my thick flannel pajamas instead?— I stall for as long as possible. Which, as it turns out, isn’t all that long. Lingering awkwardly in a small bathroom without any reading material or source of entertainment is boring as hell.
Steeling my shoulders, I take a deep breath, crack open the door, and tiptoe into the silent bedroom.
With any luck, Conor is already asleep.
Stopping short at the side of the bed, I survey his slumbering form warily. He’s tugged the sheet up to cover his lower half. His eyes are firmly closed. He’s totally still, his breaths steady as a drumbeat.
A fissure of relief shoots through me.
Or… Itellmyself it’s relief. If I was being honest, I’d have to admit it feels a bit more like regret. (Thankfully, I have no problem lying to myself for the sake of my sanity.)
Making as little noise as possible, I pull back the sheets and slide beneath them. I settle firmly on my side of the bed, as far from him as possible, feeling unquestionably nervous about our proximity… and the lack of clothing on both our bodies.
The damn FBI couldn’t have sprung for a two-bedroom safe house?
It’s been ages since I shared a bed with anyone. I’ve grown so used to my king-sized solitude, it’s odd to experience the sound of someone else’s small noises.