“ButbecauseI know you…” His hands come up to cup my cheeks. “I also know that, in a few days, when you finish having whatever internal freak out you’re currently experiencing and let everything I just said sink in… you’ll realize that I’m right. That I know exactly who you are. And that I love you for it.”
I’m crying again.
Damnit.
I glare at him through the tears. “You know, if this was just some elaborate scheme to get me to stay here while you go running off to hunt down bad guys—”
His smiling mouth hits mine, swallowing the rest of my sentence. And I don’t even care. Because I’m kissing him back, my chest full of a lightness I’ve never before experienced, and there’s no need to say another word.
He loves me.
* * *
“Did you hear that?”
“Hmm?” I blink, still flying high from the drugging effects of his mouth on mine. “Honestly, when you’re kissing me, most of my executive functions stop working…”
He pulls back from me abruptly and walks into the kitchen. His muscles are tight, his senses on high alert.
“Conor, what’s goi—”
“Shh.” He holds up a hand to silence me, listening hard.
The only audible nose is the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, which informs me it’s just past six in the morning. At least, that’s the only sound to my ears. Clearly, Conor’s are more highly attuned, seeing as he reaches down and slowly slides his gun from its holster.
No, no, no.
“Thought I heard something outside.” His voice is almost inaudible.“I’m going to check it out. Lock the door behind me. And if I’m not back in two minutes, get inside the pantry and bolt the steel door.”
I make a small sound of protest, but I’m afraid to speak. Too afraid that, if there really is someone lurking out there, any noise I make might tip them off.
And get Conor killed.
His eyes cut to mine, holding for a long moment. He gives a small nod — as if to reassure me everything will be just fine, before walking to the door. At the last minute, he pauses, turns, and holds up two fingers.
Two minutes.
I nod.
He winks.
And slips outside, into the pink-edged dawn.
* * *
Two minutes.
You wouldn’t think they could possibly drag on so long. That one hundred and twenty ticks of the second hand could be so torturously drawn out. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I hold my breath as I wait — my eyes fixed on that thin, jerking dial as it makes its slow orbit around the clock face.
Forty seconds.
He’s not back.
A minute.
Still no Conor.
A minute thirty.