Chapter 52
HEATHER
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“You hungry?” Justin asks, depositing his keys on the entrance table and heading toward the open-plan kitchen.
“I skipped lunch, so I’m starving.”
“You up for homemade pizza?”
“Sounds good.”
He digs out two defrosted pizza bases from the fridge and places them on the counter. He pours a glass of juice for me and snags a lemonade for himself.
I settle on a stool at the counter, my body still glowing in the memory of our kiss. I find it difficult to look at him now without remembering the feel of his lips on mine, the hard outline of his body trapping me against my car.
Justin puts some music on and we busy ourselves loading the pizza bases with onions, mushrooms, green peppers, olives, and tomatoes.
We keep the conversation light, Justin regaling me with stories of his job as a personal trainer and some of the more outlandish demands of his clients. Chuckling, I share anecdotes about my work at the animal shelter, steering clear of the more heartbreaking stories, not wanting to spoil the mood.
While the pizzas are cooking and Justin’s occupied at the sink, I sip my juice and let my eyes wander around the living room.
Justin mentioned he lived with two other guys and evidence of that is all around me.
A stack of bodybuilding magazines on the coffee table, the odd sock and item of clothing lying about, free weights in one corner.
After finishing washing up, Justin rests his forearms on the counter and fixes me with a look. “Why’d you skip lunch?”
I play with my glass. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“You sleeping okay?”
“Yes.” After staring at the ceiling for an hour. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, reaching for the animals I can’t save, but I don’t tell him any of that.
He studies me for a moment longer. “You’re losing weight,” he says at last. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
Abruptly, he flattens his palms on the counter, frustration sparking from him. It appears he knows me well enough to guess at the truth behind my answers. “There’s a huge physical and emotional toll that comes with undercover work. Don’t underestimate that. The work gets to everyone eventually.”
I’m saved from replying by the buzz of the oven timer.
Justin switches on the TV and we eat our pizzas while watching the news.
After the meal, I insist on cleaning up while he makes coffee.
I take my mug to the living room, kick my shoes off, and flop down on the three-seater couch, stretching out my legs.
Sprawled on the other end of the couch, Justin stares at my fuchsia-painted toes. “I never pictured you with sexy feet.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “You pictured me in a flannel nightgown and curlers?”
The look he gives me is measured. “Not at all.”
A blush creeps over my cheeks. I try to wave away the charged moment. “Feet are hardly attractive.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I once dated a dance instructor I nicknamed Verruca.”
“Verruca?” I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. “Isn’t that the Latin name for warts?”
“Yep,” he answers grimly. “I discovered those babies when she put her feet on my lap.”
“How did you react?”
“I sprang up like I was scalded and she fell to the floor.” He watches me over the rim of his coffee mug. “So if I say your feet are sexy, TT, I mean it.”
I lapse into silence. His casual, relentless flirting is watering a small, hopeful seed inside of me that I fear won’t grow into anything meaningful. Not when Justin’s made it clear he’s not interested in a serious relationship. Or in any kind of relationship, for that matter.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” I ask, steering the conversation to less personal grounds.
A crooked smile shapes his lips, as though my transparency amuses him. “Tomorrow, I want you to start taking pictures whenever and wherever you can. Document as much of the conditions in the lab as you’re able to.”
I nod, feeling a flutter of nerves.
“If it’s too risky to take a photo, don’t take it. Your priority is not to get caught.”
Now my nerves are all over the place. I swallow past the clutch on my throat. “I understand.”
“Good.” Still holding my stare, Justin extends an arm over the back of the couch. “Take off your shirt.”
I gape at him. “Excuse me?”
Amusement dances in his eyes. “It’s just too easy to tease you.” He studies my dark blue button-down shirt. “That top is perfect. I want you to wear it every day this week.”
I frown. “Every day?”
“Yep. Dress it up with a different jacket and accessories and hopefully no one will notice.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We need video footage. Cruelty’s not news unless there are photographs or video. I’m going to superglue a camera to your top buttonhole and run the wire under your clothes.”
“Won’t my lab coat obscure the lens?”
“The camera will be right on your collarbone so your lab coat shouldn’t be a problem.” He pushes to his feet in one lithe, unhurried movement and retrieves a T-shirt from his bedroom. He tosses it my way. “You can change in the bathroom.”
I stand, holding his shirt to my chest. “This feels like it’s becoming complicated.”
“It was always complicated.” His eyes never leave my face. “Trust me. I’ll hook the camera up so you’ll hardly know it’s there.”
I do trust him. At least, in this area. “The wires won’t be visible through my clothes?”
“Nope. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Okay.”
I get changed in the bathroom. Returning to the living room, I hand Justin my shirt and sit on the couch, watching him attach the camera and tape the wire in place.
“The camera will be powered by this portable DVR unit.” He shows me a small digital video recorder. “Keep it in your pocket, out of sight.”
I nod.
“Put your shirt back on and let’s see how it fits.”
In the bathroom, I slip my shirt on, careful not to snag the camera.
“How does it feel?” he asks when I return.
“A little weird.”
“Let’s have a look.”
He slips his hand under my shirt to adjust the wires. His movements are efficient and impersonal, but the feel of his fingers grazing my bare skin causes goosebumps to break out. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.
Once Justin arranges the wires to his satisfaction, he straightens my shirt and his hazel eyes collide with mine. I stare up at him for a stalled moment, my pulse pounding, waiting to see what he’ll do next.
A strange look of longing crosses his face before he carefully blanks it. He flops down on the couch, resting his head against the couch back.
“You should leave.”
“Why?” I venture, searching for clues in his tired, handsome face.
He sets his jaw. “You have to watch yourself with me,” he says gruffly. “I have no ceiling.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I whisper.
“Yes, you do.” He closes his eyes, dismissing me. “You should leave,” he repeats.
This time, I listen. I flee the townhouse, leaving Justin slumped alone on the couch. He’s right. I’m not at all equipped to deal with a man like him.