Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
MALLORY
Brewster went. That surprised me.
Not enough that I would admit it to Flint, but enough that I checked the monitor twice until Elliot disappeared into the elevator and the doors closed behind him.
“He listened to you.”
Flint glanced down at me. “Try not to sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked.”
“You have a terrible poker face.” The warmth of his tease was so familiar it almost made me laugh.
Still, I sniffed. “I resent that. As an investigative journalist, I have an excellent poker face.”
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
I looked down.
Technically, I was wearing his shirt, my underwear, and a pair of sleep shorts that covered considerably less territory than the shirt did.
“I fail to see how that’s relevant.”
His hand slid around my waist and pulled me closer. “It’s affecting your credibility.”
“Only because you’re easily distracted.”
“Mal.”
“Hmm?”
“We have to go meet the potentially unstable, recently suspended FBI profiler who showed up uninvited at my home after being contacted by a serial killer.”
“True.”
“We should probably get dressed.”
I considered that, then him before I glanced toward the hallway leading to his bedroom.
“This is a terrible way to spend a Sunday.”
“Agreed.”
I went up on my toes and kissed him. Flint made the mistake of kissing me back. For several seconds, the diner ceased to be a priority. Then his hands tightened on my hips and he broke the kiss with obvious reluctance.
“Clothes.”
“Has anyone ever told you that being so responsible is not always a perk?” I made a face at him.
“Once or twice.” His eyes twinkled despite the sobriety housed in them.
“I want a raincheck for after.” Because I really didn’t want to give up this time we’d carved out for ourselves.
“Done.” He sealed it with a kiss. “Now go.” He gave my ass a swat as we headed toward his room at the same time.
Thankfully, I did have some of my clothes there, but I draped myself into his sweatshirt once more after I had on leggings.
I also took the time to comb out the wild tangle of my hair and braid it. It was the only way to tame the bedhead unless I wanted to shower again.
Flint was ready far swifter than I was, but he didn’t rush me and the warmth in his eyes as he watched me was as tangible as a caress.
“Keep staring at me like that, and we’re never getting out of here.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Mal.”
The corners of my mouth kicked upward. “I still have my raincheck.”
He chuckled. “Let’s go. Before we really don’t get out of here.” At least he seemed as unhappy about the idea as I was.
The diner was exactly two blocks away but Flint still drove. I could have pointed out that walking would have been faster after we spent ten minutes getting dressed and another five locating my bra beneath his bed. I didn’t even remember shedding it before my shower earlier.
But why bother? Flint was already in a mood. Elliot’s arrival had knocked him off-center. To be fair, it hadn’t done much for my equilibrium. Particularly coming so hot on the heels of blowing that line separating personal and professional off the map between Flint and me.
He’d called the diner before we left, then the front desk, then someone named David who apparently worked security at the network and had been sleeping until Flint woke him.
I didn’t ask what Flint told him nor did I eavesdrop. I suspected the answer was enough.
“You’re expecting trouble.”
His eyes remained on the road. “I'm expecting Brewster.”
“That doesn’t always mean the same thing.”
“No.” But the simple response indicated it didn’t mean it wasn’t trouble.
I waited.
He glanced at me.
I smiled.
His attention returned to traffic. “You realize that doesn't work on me.”
“It absolutely works on you.”
“Not today.” Interesting qualification.
I watched the city slide past the passenger window. Sunday traffic remained light. People walked dogs. Couples carried shopping bags. Someone jogged through an intersection wearing shorts despite the cold.
Everything looked just so—normal. The idea looked almost as alien as it felt right now. My world had truly narrowed to this one story, the investigation, and hiding either from the killer, the FBI, or everyone else.
I’d been in war zones less chaotic.
“You think he's dangerous,” I said, head tilted as I tracked a woman moving at a brisk walk, arms swinging, her dog trotting with her, while also talking on her phone.
Flint's hands shifted on the wheel.
“I think he showed up at my building after being removed from a federal investigation for being too personally involved with you.”
“True,” I said softly. “But it’s also not really an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Incomplete.”
His head turned and I swore I could feel the vibration of the growl he released when I truly aggravated him. The fact he swallowed the sound spoke volumes.
I smiled sweetly.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“You know exactly what.”
I did. The word belonged to Simon now and apparently that bothered Flint. I filed that away.
“I don't know whether Brewster is dangerous,” Flint finally admitted. “I know he's behaving unpredictably and that makes me wary.”
“That's profiler language.”
“It's common-sense language.”
“Still.”
He stopped at a light. “This isn't funny, Mal.”
“I know.”
The light changed. He drove.
I watched his profile for another moment. “I trust you.”
His knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. I had expected some dry response. Maybe a joke. Instead, Flint remained silent.
“Are you okay?”
“Yep.”
“Pretend to be a little more convincing.”
“I'm driving.”
“Last I checked you could walk and chew gum at the same time.”
His mouth twitched.
Good.
I turned toward the window again. After another block, and he let go of the steering wheel with his right hand and found my left. When he slotted our fingers together, neither of us commented, but I did relax.
Brewster had chosen the rear booth. From there he could see the entrance, kitchen doors, bathrooms, and most of the windows.
A coffee cup rested untouched in front of him on the formica table. That was it. No food. No phone. No badge. No weapon—or at least none that I could see, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one.
Flint was already steering us toward the booth as I registered Brewster’s pick. With his hand at the small of my back, Flint guided us toward him.
Brewster’s gaze lingered on my shirt for half a second and then his mask fell into place. “Thanks for coming.”
I slid into the booth opposite Brewster and Flint joined me, nudging me over just a bit so he was directly across from Brewster rather than me.
“We’re giving one chance,” Flint pressed his thigh into mine as he locked gazes with Elliot. “We're here.”
“I need to speak with Mallory.”
“You are.”
Brewster's jaw tightened as though he was going to say something, but then swallowed it.
Déjà vu. I almost laughed. Flint apparently remembered the earlier exchange too because his mouth threatened to curve.
Sadly, for him anyway, Brewster didn't find it funny. “Privately.”
“No.” This time I answered before either man could continue this little testosterone-fueled tug of war.
Shock jerked Brewster’s attention to me.
Better that we were all on the same page. “I asked Flint how he wanted to handle this. This is how we're handling it.”
Something dark and altogether unfriendly crossed Brewster's face. It was gone too fast for me to be sure, but I went with my gut.
“You don't understand what you're involved in.” Brewster’s tone dipped so deeply into warning it became a threat.
“Then explain it.” I wouldn’t budge on this.
Brewster and I had many discussions about Simon pre and post our—bad decision—at length. He didn’t get to dismiss me as some kind of thoughtless idiot.
When he looked at Flint, I just shook my head once. “Here.”
Brewster’s gaze returned to me and for several seconds nobody spoke. A waitress approached with menus. The timing was spectacular.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” Flint said simultaneously.
She looked between us.
“For me,” I clarified.
“No,” Flint repeated.
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“You've had enough.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Those are fighting words.”
“I’m aware.”
“You made me coffee.”
“Under normal circumstances.”
“You made me excellent coffee.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
The waitress’s gaze bounced between us.
Flint remained unmoved. “Water.”
I stared at him. “You slept with me and decided to be suicidal. Interesting tactic if you think you’re getting laid again.”
His mouth twitched. “You’ve had enough caffeine to power the city—in winter with lake effect snow.”
I snorted then looked at the waitress. “Coffee.”
“Water,” Flint said.
“Coffee.”
The waitress took one cautious step backward. “I’m going to give you two another minute.”
“Coward,” I called after her. “I'll have coffee.”
“She'll have tea.”
He did not… “I hate tea.” Something he damn well knew.
“Orange juice.” His expression didn’t change nor did his tone, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that Flint was teasing me. The tension that had thrummed through me since we arrived dissolved into the playful outrage at him taking his life in his hands in an attempt to deny me coffee.
“I'm not five.”
His snort was not flattering. “Water.”
I narrowed my eyes.
Brewster watched us. Something about his expression shifted and it chilled me.
The waitress looked at Flint. “Water?”
“Please.”
“Coffee,” I told her and I could actually see the whites of her eyes as she attempted to not look warily at Flint.
She fled.
“Five bucks says she brings me the coffee,” I told Flint.
“You’re on.”
Then almost as one, we turned back to Brewster and I said, “Sorry. Where were we?”
He stared at me for a beat, then at Flint.
“You're sleeping with him.”
The statement was so abrupt I blinked.
Flint didn't. “Not your business,” he said.
Brewster ignored him.
I studied Elliot. Not Agent Brewster. Elliot. Because Agent Brewster would never have asked.
“Is that why you came?”
“No.” The clipped response echoed with everything he wasn’t saying.
“Then we're not discussing it.”
His mouth tightened.