Chapter 15 #2
Nodding, Dove lay back down. Pulled the quilt up over her tie-dyed T-shirt, the sliver of skin it left atop the elastic waistband of her pajama pants. “Scott Montgomery,” she said. He could be her third. Except…he’d found evidence, but she was drawing a complete blank on two other good things…
Because Mitchell wasn’t exiting the premises. He was ruffling through a drawer in the dresser farthest away from her. As though looking for something he hadn’t seen in a while.
When she saw the black pajama pants he eventually came up with, she turned back to face the wall. Mitchell. He could be her third. Because even in the midst of hell, he could make her smile.
Which made it about her. But about him, too.
He really was a genuinely nice guy.
With a beautiful soul inside that gorgeously masculine body.
Dove appeared to be asleep when Mitchell came out of the bathroom, freshly showered, and in the brand-new pajama pants and shirt his aunt had purchased for him a decade or so before. Lucky for him, they’d been big at the time, so they fit now.
Whether his bedmate was truly out or not, he was going with a big yes. Had no intention of doing anything to find out differently.
Her safety was his business. Her sleeping state, or lack thereof, was not.
Checking to make certain his gun was loaded, safety off, he plugged in his phone, walked back to turn off the bathroom light, pulled down his covers, got into bed and smelled…lavender.
Holy hell. Had she brought the stuff to bed with her? Drifted petals on the sheets? He was too far in to look. Would have to sit up, pull the covers away…
Closing his eyes Mitchell did the only thing he could do—he shut down.
Turned off life’s challenges, trials and temptations until morning, and with a last thought about the gun lodged between the bed rail and the mattress, drifted into sleep mode…until he wasn’t asleep.
Fully alert suddenly, he lay there, assessing his situation. How long had he been out? Had he heard something? Or was he just so on edge he hadn’t fallen fully asleep as he did every single night the minute his head hit the pillow?
Dove hadn’t moved. He wasn’t looking at her—purposely—but could see the shadow of her quilt-covered shoulder in his peripheral vision. Just as it had been when he’d closed his eyes. Just to be sure, though, he turned his head.
And noticed three things. She was lying on top of his bedspread, the quilt her only source of warmth. She was shivering. And based on the time glowing at him from the phone she’d set up on the nightstand over there, he’d been out for almost five hours.
Her shivering must have awoken him.
Figuring the best, easiest and least obtrusive way to ease her discomfort from the night’s chill was to just pull up the spread from his side of the bed and lay it over her, he did so. Slowly. Gently. Careful not to actually touch any part of her with any part of him.
And leaving himself with only a sheet for a cover.
On his back, he checked on the gun, closed his eyes, figuring he could get another three or four hours in and, instead, lay there in the darkness, trying to convince himself that Dove was sound asleep. He’d seen the slight jerk when he’d dropped the last corner of the spread to her shoulder.
And suddenly couldn’t clear his mind of images of her. That morning in his kitchen. In those thin pants and ridiculous, half shirt thing. What was it with the woman and leaving a strip of her belly bare? Didn’t she get that she lived in Alaska? One of the coldest states in the nation?
Flash-forward. The stark fear in her eyes when she’d first walked into the hospital, seconds away from seeing her father.
The saucy grin she got on her face when she was messing with him.
He heard a sniffle. Tried to pretend that he hadn’t. For all she knew he’d fallen back to sleep. Normally he would have done. Should have done. Wished he had.
And might have actually done, if she didn’t start to move, turning slowly to a flat position and then scooting toward her edge of the mattress.
Keeping his eyes closed until she was off the mattress, he glanced to see her back as she tiptoed across his carpet. Ready to snap his eyes shut if she started to turn back. Instead, he watched her head not to the adjoining bathroom, as he’d expected but to the bedroom door.
Without moving anything but his mouth he said, “Sorry, that’s a breach of protocol.”
In the moonlit shadows he could make out her shape. Her nod. He couldn’t read her expression as she glanced toward the bed. “I didn’t want to bother you with my tears. I’ll be right back. Just let me—”
“I’m bothering you by requiring you to remain in my presence. You have a right to bother me back. Please get in the bed. If you go, I have to get up and follow you.”
She could ask under whose orders he was working. But what would be the point? They both knew the score. She was free to go at any time.
But she needed his help, and his connections too, probably. And he needed to keep her safe.
Deal or no deal. Up to her.
Spinning on her heel, she faced the bathroom. Then said, “You want to check in there first, to make sure no one’s lurking?” He wanted to hear snarkiness in her tone but didn’t. He heard compliance.
“No,” he told her. He could see the security camera blinking over his bedroom door. And would have had a phone alert if the room had been breached. Same for the alarms on both windows. They were lit, signaling working order.
But he lay alert, staring at the ceiling until he heard the bathroom door open. And then, eyes closed, waited for the dip in the mattress to signal that she was back in bed. Relaxing, he told himself he’d be back to sleep in no time.
“Thank you, Mitchell.” The nearly whispered words drifted over him.
“You okay?” he asked then, instead of issuing the you’re welcome that would have been more his style.
“Yeah. Crying is healthy, you know. Helps release the toxins that build up with stress and grief. You might try it sometime.”
He’d take her word for that one. But didn’t bother to share the news. “Get some rest,” he said instead and, closing his eyes, ordered himself back to sleep.