Chapter 8 Brenna
brENNA
Iwoke before dawn to an empty bed, the pillow wall I’d constructed still intact between the two sides. The scent of coffee drifted from downstairs, which meant Atticus was already up.
I slipped out from under the covers, my feet hitting the cold hardwood. After a quick stop in the bathroom to splash water on my face and run a brush through my hair, I padded downstairs in my pajamas and fuzzy slippers.
Regret settled in my chest. Last night, I’d hurt him when he was being vulnerable, when he was trying to show me exactly how much he wanted me. His explicit confession about what he wanted to do had terrified me into retreating—not because I didn’t want it, but because I wanted it too much.
I stared at the coffeepot, remembering how he’d made my tea with the cream exactly how I liked it. Such a small gesture, but it had revealed an attention to detail that went beyond the mission’s requirements.
I’d just poured myself a cup when my phone buzzed. Luke’s face filled the screen.
“Mornin’, Bug.”
“Good morning. Where are you?” Yeah, I knew he was in the Bay Area already, so while I could tell myself I was maintaining my cover, it didn’t change that I felt like shit for deceiving him.
“Silicon Valley. Although right now, I’m in Tiburon for a summit on artificial intelligence. You’ll never guess who I ran into,” he said.
My stomach dropped, but I kept my voice light. “Who?”
“Mason Finch. My old roommate at the academy.”
“Yeah, I remember him.” I gripped the counter, hating that I had to continue the subterfuge. “Where?”
“Actually, I first saw him Thursday night at a place in Sausalito where I had a business dinner scheduled. Then this morning, we met for coffee.”
“That’s crazy,” I managed. “What’s even wilder is I’m going to be in the Bay Area too—DOJ thing.” God, I was getting so good at lying to someone I loved more than anyone in the world other than my parents that I was scaring myself.
“No way! We should all get dinner. You, me, and Finch if he’s got time.”
“Sounds good.”
“Cool. Hey, I gotta run, but it’s good to see you. You look great, by the way. Love you, Bug.”
“Thanks,” I said, rolling my eyes. I looked like crap, and we both knew it. “Love you too.”
Atticus would be back soon, and the least I could do was make him a proper breakfast. I rummaged through the well-stocked kitchen, finding eggs, bacon, and sourdough bread for toast. Cooking gave my hands something to do while my mind wrestled with how awkward things were between him and me.
He’d gone as far as choosing to sleep down here so I didn’t feel pressured.
When had anyone ever put my comfort above their own like that?
The bacon was sizzling, and I was whisking eggs when I heard the front door open, followed by quiet footsteps.
“Smells amazing in here,” Atticus said from the doorway.
“I owe you breakfast.” I kept my focus on the stove, afraid to meet his eyes. “After making you sleep on the floor.”
He approached, and I felt his warmth behind me. Not close enough to touch, but near enough that his presence made my skin hum with awareness.
“You didn’t make me do anything. I chose to sleep there.”
I glanced over my shoulder, struck by the gentleness in his voice. “I still feel bad.” I flipped the French toast, avoiding his eyes. “Luke called.”
“Yeah?” His tone was casual, but I heard the underlying interest.
“He mentioned running into you. Twice.”
He moved to lean against the counter where he could see my face. “What else did he say?”
“I fudged the truth and told him I was going to be in town for a DOJ thing, which isn’t technically a lie. He wants the three of us to have dinner.”
Atticus’ eyes flared. “That’s…”
“A disaster waiting to happen?”
“I was going to say ‘awkward,’ but disaster works too.” He studied me. “What did you tell him?”
“I said it sounded good and left it at that.” I plated the French toast, and our fingers brushed when I handed it to him. “As I’m sure you know, he’s here for the AI Summit. Which throws a major wrench into our plans.”
“I’ll say. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.” He dug into the food. “Your brother’s timing has always been impeccable. Remember when—” He stopped himself. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Ancient history.” He took a bite and made an appreciative sound. “This is really good.”
“It’s my mom’s recipe.”
“I’ve had your mom’s. This is better.” There was a glint in his eyes when he looked up at me. When it quickly turned to heat, my face flushed.
“I doubt that, but thanks.”
He grew more serious. “We need to recalibrate the whole approach with the team. If Luke’s at the summit—”
“Agreed. I’ll schedule a briefing.”
He leaned against his chair. “Before you do, we should talk about last night.”
I’d taken a seat at the bar and was about to take a bite of my breakfast, but pushed my plate away and stood. “Why?”
“Because I hurt you, and it wasn’t my intention.”
“I know that, but…”
“Go on.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But I’ve spent ten years convincing myself that wanting you was just some teenage fantasy. Last night proved it wasn’t.”
He stood, turned me in his arms, and searched my face. I saw heat flare in his eyes again. “And that scares you.”
“Terrifies me.”
“Why?” he asked like I had him.
“Because admitting I still want you means admitting I might get hurt.”
“I would never intentionally hurt you, Brenna.”
“It’s not about that. I’m more worried about what happens when this assignment ends and we go back to our separate lives.”
“We don’t have to go back to separate lives.”
I wriggled out of his arms, returned to my seat at the bar, and took a bit of French toast, tasting nothing. “Don’t we? Your job takes you all over the world on assignments you can’t talk about. Mine keeps me in Washington, prosecuting cases.”
He returned to his seat like I had. “I don’t know. But what I’m sure of is that the attraction between us, how much we want each other, isn’t going to stop just because we say out loud that we shouldn’t be feeling it.”
I studied his face, looking for signs that he was just saying what he thought I wanted to hear. All I saw was honesty. “What about Luke?”
“We’re adults, Brenna. Not kids.” He leaned back in his seat. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I can take him.” He flexed a muscle, and I smiled. It quickly left my face when his brow furrowed.
“I called Admiral on my way here.”
“Yeah?”
“I shouldn’t have. This is your investigation, and as he so kindly reminded me, I should’ve discussed the issue with Luke with you first. Not him. He also suggested I refrain from mentioning I called him.”
“I appreciate you telling me, particularly since he advised you not to.”
“I’m sorry, Brenna.”
“It’s okay. No harm, no foul.”
He stood, but not entirely upright, picked up his plate, and cringed.
“You look like you’re in pain.”
“Back’s giving me issues. It’ll ease up. Not used to how damp it is here…” He continued to mutter a myriad of excuses that I stopped listening to.
“Are you finished eating?”
His eyes flared. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Head upstairs, and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
I read his face well enough to recognize he was attempting a witty comeback, but nothing came to him quickly enough.
“So, uh…”
“You heard me. Go upstairs.”
The heat I saw in his cheeks before he walked away had nothing to do with embarrassment.
Which meant I knew what I was getting myself into.
And I wanted it. Wanted him. I wasn’t naive enough to think the massage I intended to give him wouldn’t turn into something more.
I stuck my plate in the sink, washed my hands, and climbed the stairs.
With every step, I thought through whether this was a good or bad idea, but when I reached the landing, one answer hadn’t won out over the other.
I found Atticus sitting on the edge of the bed. My side, not his. When he looked up and his eyes met mine, he smiled. “You sure about this?”
“About what?” I asked, feigning ignorance for about two seconds before we both laughed. “On your stomach, Finch.”
He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and my breath caught.
I’d seen glimpses of his physique before, but being able to look rather than glance was different.
His broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist, and every muscle along the way was defined.
But that wasn’t all. The scars scattered on his body told stories of a dangerous career.
He stretched out and folded his arms under his head. The morning light played across the planes of his back, highlighting a bullet wound near his right shoulder blade and what looked like a knife scar along his ribs.
I climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, and placed my hands on his shoulders. The moment my palms made contact with his skin, I felt the jolt of awareness that always seemed to spark between us.
“Let me know if I hurt you,” I warned, beginning to work my thumbs along the tight muscles.
He let out a low sound that went straight through me. “What if I want more?” He looked over his shoulder and winked.
Instead of responding, I continued finding knots and working them loose, moving from his shoulders down along his spine. His lower back was taut—not just from one night on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “For being angry with you.”
“You weren’t. It was yourself you were mad at.”
It wasn’t necessary for me to agree out loud. We both knew he was right.
“How did you get this one?” I asked, tracing the line along his ribs.
“Kandahar. Guy got lucky with a blade.”
The casual way he said it reminded me how different our worlds had been before this assignment. I’d spent my career in courtrooms and conference rooms. He’d spent his in places where split-second decisions meant the difference between life and death.
“And this?” My fingers found the bullet scar.
“Syria. Sniper got off one shot before Tank took him out.”
“Tank saved your life?”