Given what this FBI investigation might uncover about his mother and what she did to my father, I should stop this before it gets more complicated.
And yet my fingers claw their way up his chest, memorizing the feel of him, unable to stop myself.
Because nothing has felt more right than having Noah back in my life.
I’m so enthralled by his touch, his feel, his taste, that it takes a moment for the sound of a stream of liquid hitting the carpet to register. When it finally does, I’m breaking free and bolting upright in bed.
“No! Bad dog!”
* * *
“Where do you keep these?” I hold up the bottle of vinegar and rubber gloves.
“Under the sink is fine,” Noah says absently, his hands clasped behind his neck in a morning stretch that hasn’t quite finished, the hem of his T-shirt lifted to show a glimpse of his taut belly and the dark trail of hair.
He doesn’t notice me admiring his body, his gaze locked on the backyard where the sun crawls over the horizon of trees. “He’s a real asshole of a dog.”
“It’s our fault. He was telling us he had to go and we . . . weren’t listening.” I feel my cheeks flush.
“Yeah, but the way he was lookin’ at us while he was doing it, through that squinty little eye of his, I could almost hear him saying ‘fuck y’all!’?”
I chuckle at the exaggerated Texas twang in Noah’s voice. “It’s going to take a while for him to get used to domesticated life. He’s used to living under trailers.”
“He was outside when he did all that.” Noah waves a hand at the torn-up flower beds and overturned planters that we came home to yesterday—one of them resting at the bottom of the pool.
“Told you we shouldn’t leave him alone here. He doesn’t like being confined.”
“Looks pretty damn happy to me,” Noah mumbles, reaching over to hit a button on the coffeemaker.
I peer out the kitchen window in time to see my newfound pet charge a flock of those noisy iridescent blue-black birds, his jaws snapping with excitement. They squawk in protest as they scatter. “What are those birds, anyway?”
“Grackles.”
I grimace. “Sounds like something out of the underworld.”
He hands me a steaming cup of coffee—black, just how I like it. “Your dog left an underworld bird on the doormat last night. Headless.”
“A present for you,” I tease, inhaling the comforting aroma before taking my first sip.
Noah’s gaze travels down my bare legs. He grins.
“What?”
Stooping over, Noah slowly drags a fingertip along my thigh, beginning just above my knee and moving upward. My skin sprouts gooseflesh instantly. “You weren’t kidding when you said you highlighted everything important.”
I look down to see wobbly yellow lines from my highlighter all over my legs. And arms. And my new crisp white T-shirt. I groan. “I must have been rolling on it all night! Dammit!”
“I should have capped it,” he apologizes, as if this is his fault. “We can buy you more clothes today.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“I’ve got money—”
“No.” He’s already been generous enough.
Noah studies me as if deciding whether it’s worth the argument. “You’re about the same size as my mom was. There’s a whole room full of clothes upstairs. Take whatever you want.”
Jackie Marshall’s clothes? “Wouldn’t that be . . . weird?”
“They’re just clothes. She doesn’t need them anymore.” He heaps a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and heaves a sigh, the kind that tells me talking about his mother—even her clothes—isn’t as easy as he’s making it sound. “Seriously, take what you want. Your mom will fit into some of it, too. We can bring whatever you think she may like when we go to visit her.”
We’re going to visit her? “Thanks. I’ll . . . see.” The idea of pillaging a dead woman’s closet doesn’t sit well with me, but he’s right. They’re just clothes, and she doesn’t need them. I, on the other hand, covered in streaks of fluorescent yellow, do. I savor another mouthful of coffee. “What time is it?”
“Eight.”
I groan. “When did we fall asleep, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Three? Four?” Noah’s eyes are heavily lined by bags.
“No wonder I’m so tired.”
He steps into me, and reaches up to push a wayward curl off my forehead, before leaning in to plant a gentle kiss against my lips.
“So, is this how it’s going to be between us from now on?” I roll my eyes mockingly, trying to cover for the fact that my hands are trembling.
“It’s dreadful, isn’t it?” He grins against my mouth. “Why don’t you go back to bed? We have nowhere we need to be.”
As much as that idea—with Noah lying next to me—appeals . . . “We’re going to The Lucky Nine today, remember? We talked about it last night.”
He furrows his brow. “We did?”
“No. But we are going.”
“Okay.” A pained expression flashes across his face. “If you really want to.”
“I do. And then we’re going to find this Heath Dunn guy.” My dad’s partner at the time of his death.
“And why are we going to see him?”
“Because he told investigators that my dad had been taking shady phone calls. We need to know more.”
“Of course we do.” Noah doesn’t look too thrilled at that idea. “I told my mom’s secretary that I’d pick up a box of things from the station. We can ask her to look Dunn up while we’re there.”
“Perfect.”
His gaze drifts down to my mouth, settling there. “Yeah . . . perfect,” he whispers absently.
I take a step back, out of his reach, as my lower belly is flooded with warmth, because I know where this is headed. “Go! Hurry up and get dressed. This motel is about a half hour away, so we—”
The doorbell rings.
He groans and throws his head back, his Adam’s apple jutting out. Long since a favorite male body part of mine, my fingertips itch to slide along the sharp curve.
“Jenson again?”
“No, he rings three times, like the impatient asshole that he is.” Noah heads for the door, and I trail behind, admiring the curves of his muscular back and shoulders.
He peeks through the side panel of glass. “Speaking of assholes . . .” He unlocks and yanks open the door.
“Rise and shine, campers.” Kristian’s flat tone doesn’t match his words. He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes doing a quick head-to-toe of my stained T-shirt and shorts from yesterday. He’s swapped his student garb for a pair of tan chinos and a white button-down. Still not how I imagined an FBI agent to look.
Neither is showing up on our doorstep holding a tray of coffees. Presumably, for Noah and me.
“What are you doing here?” Noah doesn’t bother to hide his annoyance as he scans the street.
“I told you I was coming.” He nods behind him to a man who does fit my mental image of an FBI agent, wearing a navy jacket marked by the letters FBI. He’s leaning against one of two cars parked at the end of the driveway, talking on his phone. A large rectangular case sits by his feet. “That’s my evidence guy.”
“Right. Give me a minute. Gracie . . .” Noah lowers his voice, his hand coasting over my hip as he edges past me, adding, “Don’t invite them in.” He heads for the safe in the pantry, where we’ve locked up everything.
“So, Gracie—” Kristian begins.
“It’s Grace.”
“Oh . . . I see.” He smirks.
“You see what?”
“He’s the only one who’s allowed to call you Gracie.” His tone is dripping with insinuation.
My cheeks flame. I don’t even notice when Noah calls me that anymore. “How about I worry about what Noah calls me, and you worry about why Dwayne Mantis pulled us over and threatened us yesterday.” I recap the five terrifying minutes, unease settling in once again. There was something about that guy—the way he moved, or the way he looked down at me, or simply the fact that I suspect him of murder and I’m clearly on his radar—that instantly put me on edge.
Exactly what Mantis wants.
By the time I’m done recounting the bizarre move by Mantis, all hints of humor are gone from Kristian’s handsome face. “Well, if he didn’t know you suspected him before, he does now.”
“Good—maybe he’ll do something stupid.”