“That doesn’t mean I want my personal items out in the open for you to see,” I respond as I shove a mix of casual and work clothes into a duffel bag.
“We can come by in a few days to get more stuff if you need it,” he says, eyeing the duffel bag. Like an idiot, my cheeks heat. The idea of spending days in his home, surrounded by his scent and his deliciously overbearing masculinity makes me nervous. If I were smart, I’d be afraid for my life right now and formulating a plan of action to get myself out of this mess and as far away from him as possible, especially considering it’s his fault that I’m in this mess to begin with. But realistically, I know that’s not going to happen, so I just shut up and go with it.
“How long will I be staying with you for?” I ask. His eyes stop wandering around my barren, messy room and land on me.
Without an ounce of humor he says, “Until you’re safe. However long that is.”
“That’s really vague.”
“I let you leave my house twice, and each time you were targeted. You don’t have to like my answer, but you do have to deal with it. I will not let anything hurt you again. You got that?”
That nagging hope that maybe he likes me for more than a quick hump on a garage floor resurfaces and blooms in the pit of my belly. His words come out so clear and decided. He’s not some young guy who doesn’t know what he wants or has a tough time communicating it. This is a man who does as he pleases, takes what he likes, and doesn’t apologize for it or ask permission.
And if I’m not careful, I might fall for him hard enough to not recover.
Chapter 19
I TENSE UP and claw at the sheet beneath me. My throat aches from the exertion of screaming so much in such a short period of time. Once I’m coherent, I close my mouth and the room falls silent. This is the third time tonight I’ve awoken myself in a panic. The first time I woke up screaming, Grady ran into the room with his gun drawn. Cheyenne and Lisa followed right behind him. Lisa had a flashlight and Cheyenne had a straightening iron in hand as if they were prepared for battle. They were also wearing shirts, which was a good thing, but Grady wasn’t; which was an even better thing.
The bedroom door opens and Grady walks in. He reaches out and flips the light on. Still in just gray sweats with no shirt on. This time he strides in slowly and his gun hangs loosely in his hand. His free hands scrubs at his face, and he says, “Somebody better be in here trying to kill you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, blinking spastically from the sudden brightness of the room.
“That’s a first,” he says, “you being sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair, and his muscles flex. I noticed a tattoo on his ribcage. In a beautiful script, he has CHEYENNE tattooed on his left ribs. A lot of people get tattoos of their children's names, so it's not like the tattoo in itself is unique. It's just one more little thing that shows how much his daughter means to him.
I've never been involved with a guy who has kids before, and actually, until now the very idea gave me an uneasy feeling. I didn't want the complication or frustration of dealing with an ex and a kid and all, but it's different with Grady. He's all muscles and gorgeous dark hair and brilliant green eyes. And when I see his tattoo, lovingly placed on his ribs, with the name of his daughter, I don't want him to leave. It’s not so much a fear of being alone as it was the fear of not getting to know him.
“Are you ever sorry?” I snark.
He walks to my side of the bed and looks down at me with puffy eyes that make his exhaustion obvious. “My regrets would haunt even your waking hours.”
The seriousness of his response takes me aback. I find myself speechless for the first time in a while.
“Since you woke me up again, let’s get this shit over with, yeah?” he says. He sets the gun down on the side table and sits himself at the foot of the bed. His tattoos are gorgeous. His left bicep is covered in a warrior tattoo that is adorned with skulls. On his left forearm is a woman with wings and her legs spread. I try to pretend that one’s not there. His chest, right above his heart, has some kind of double-sided tree trunk with a Celtic-style branch banding around it that forms a circle.
“What’s with the tree?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He looks down at his tattoo for a moment before raising his eyes and saying, “Circle of life. What ends begins again—shit like that.”
“Wow, you’re deep,” I say with an impressed nod.
“Too easy,” he says with a smile and a shake of his head. His eyes travel down to my breasts that strain beneath my tank top. “Back to business—I need to know what Mancuso’s guy said and did.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say in a plea.