21. Easton
Easton
Quite the transition—from killing fifteen people alongside Zoey in the jungle a night and a half ago . . . to shopping for underwear next to Gwen this morning. But screw it. I suppose shopping with her is healthier than flipping around in my bed upstairs, drowning in memories from that island.
“We’re going to have a look around the new store,” Gwen warns Malachi, “not committing a B and E. Promise.”
He smiles. “Enjoy yourselves.” The man winks, knowing exactly what kind of trouble I might get myself into up there alone with Gwen. He loves this, doesn’t he?
I nod my goodbye, and as we make our way to the elevators, I shake my head as I realize I’m staring at her ass.
It’s perfectly encased in her black leggings as she skips ahead of me, as if her world didn’t flip the other day.
I’d like to blame jet lag for my inability to unglue my damn eyes from the area I have the urge to swat for making me shop.
But something tells me that’s not the reason.
Gwen presses the button for the lift, and . . .
Did I just refer to the elevator as a lift?
Great, now she’s turning me into an Ameri-Brit. Next thing I know, I’ll be saying bloody hell.
I shake my head as the doors open and follow her inside. My heart slams against my rib cage as I remember the last time I was in this metal box. When she cornered me on the snowy deck before I went on the op with Zoey.
I keep my eyes on the floor as we rise, because memories of the last thirty-six hours will rip through my mind like a tornado if I let them. And the point of this trip upstairs, aside from buying clothes, is to get both our minds out of that hell.
“E?” she whispers.
I take my time to work my way up to her face. From her black running shoes to the little fitted zip-up top she has on. Her blonde hair is in a ponytail, and she’s licking her bottom lip as if searching for gloss she probably forgot to put on.
“Yeah?” I finally answer as the doors part.
“Thank you for this.” It’s a quiet statement as she pushes away from the wall, but the meaning is loud in my head.
I wait for her to exit first. Not just to see her ass in those stretchy black things painted onto her legs, but because that’s the gentlemanly thing to do. And maybe so she can’t see my reaction to her.
She swipes her keycard outside the store and punches in the code, and two frosted glass doors part open. Still has that fresh paint smell as we walk in, and she types in a code so the doors seal behind us.
Trapped with her in a store. Alone. Perfect.
Flipping on only one set of lights, she doesn’t waste time, going straight for the men’s section. The place looks like a Nordstrom, but probably one-twentieth of the size. Too damn expensive for me, that’s for sure.
“Okay, for a guy, cotton is the OG of underwear fabrics. Doubt you’re the satin type.” She trails her index finger along a stack of gray boxer-briefs on a table. “Cotton isn’t good for working out, though. So, you probably need a few nylon or spandex brands, too.”
God help me, this woman is actually picking out my skivvies.
She tosses a couple at me. Settling on some Ralph Lauren and Lululemon ones. Even gets my size right. I’m almost offended. Almost. But the fact she knows I do need room for my rather large—
“Okay, next.” She claps her hands, and she appears excited to be doing this.
Who knew getting to dress me would be such a mood lifter for her? Now I have no choice but to let her have fun. Gotta keep her happy.
“T-shirts. Workout shorts,” she continues. “New kicks, for sure. And maybe we’ll hit the indoor pool at some point, so you need swim trunks.” She eyes me up and down. “Unless you prefer speedos?”
She already knows the answer to that. “Not a speedo guy.” I set the underwear aside for now and follow her around, doing whatever she says like I’m some golden retriever, not the killer I was on that island. The whiplash between those two versions of me should be illegal.
She holds a shirt up to my chest to check for the size, and I’m grateful she didn’t need to do that for the boxer-briefs. “Oh yeah, this is good. Love white on you.”
“White is bad for operating,” I grunt, and she knows that.
She tosses the Under Armour tee on the stack of items she’s collecting for me. “So don’t wear it while on ops. Easy fix.” She shrugs and moves on. “Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. Try this quarter-zip on for me. They’re all the rage.” Her eyes light up, and I don’t stand a chance.
I drop my chin, examining the damn thing as if she’s offering a thong instead. “Really?”
“Yup.” She lets the P pop, and my gaze snaps to her mouth—too fast, too hungry—like I have no damn control over myself. “You can put it over your tee since I know you don’t want me getting a look at your back.”
I took enough ibuprofen for a horse before my head hit the pillow last night, so I’m doing okay. Just surface wounds. Nothing major. Not compared to the shit in my head, anyway.
Before I can answer, she presses the sweater to my chest to hold, and she pushes up on her toes for my hat.
She tosses it onto a nearby table, then ruffles up my hair with one hand, making me acutely aware I’m in need of a barber.
Maybe Carter even has one here on standby, too?
I mean, at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“I’m digging this look.” Her fingers continue to slide into my hair and every muscle in my body locks.
I snatch her wrist with my free hand. “Thanks.” I need her to stop playing with my damn hair. New turn-on unlocked. Awesome.
I tighten my grip, and her pulse jumps under my thumb. Something primitive in my chest responds. A strange need to draw her closer takes hold of me. The desire to calm her heart and mine. Or maybe . . . do the opposite. Make both race even more.
“Gotta get your fingers out of my hair so I can put this thing on.”
“Gotta let go of my wrist so I can back away,” she sasses back, then secures her lip between her teeth.
Fuck. Does this shop sell gum? I could use something to bite into.
My eyes fixate on her bottom lip, and . . . Double fuck.
I finally release her and pull the sweater over my head.
She adjusts the zipper—apparently, I only know my way around yokes and rifles, nothing as complex as a zipper—then steps back to appreciate the look, hands resting on her hips and head cocking to one side. “We need this in more than one color.”
“One is already too many.” I unzip it and peel it over my head, because it’s too damn hot in here for this thing.
“How about a hoodie?” She points to another table, already moving on.
“Do you plan on stealing it from me?”
She spins around, clutching the black hoodie to her chest. “Depends.”
“On?”
“If it smells like you.”
My brain stalls. Hearing her say that does something to me it shouldn’t.
Then she has to go and send me an air kiss, the little tease.
I’m officially forced to do a quick recap of the top reasons why I should not get turned on by her: Wyatt’s daughter.
She was born in this millennium and I’m a relic from the late nineteen hundreds.
’87 to be exact. She just survived hell.
I might be a monster, because killing those men felt good.
I glance at the camera, knowing Malachi might have eyes on us, too. We’re not technically alone.
I wait for those reminders to do their job and shove me back into the cold space I’ve lived in for years—a.k.a. the friend zone. It’s the only place I can ever be if I’m really going to be back in her life for good. Not even as her protector, just as a friend.
The problem is those warnings aren’t working. Her distracted happiness in styling me is contagious, keeping me stuck in place.
“Well, um, we’ll get the hoodie in two colors,” she begins, her voice far too sexy and breathy for me to handle, “just in case I need to borrow one.”
She adds a black and gray one to the pile of shit she expects me to charge to my room. Who doesn’t need a—
I check the price tag.
A hundred and thirty Euros for a hoodie? Fak.
Before I know it, she’s picked out a whole new wardrobe, including shorts to swim in. Though, she did hold up a pair of red speedos right in front of my crotch just to drive me nuts.
At this point, I won’t even need my dad to ship anything. I also might need a second job—or better combat pay—to survive this woman.
To be fair, Carter pays me damn well. I’m just trying to save that money for my own piece of land.
“I think that’s it,” she finally says while heading to the front register. “Oh perfect. They have gum.” She tosses a pack of Spearmint onto the counter, and I add four more.
She begins to ring me up, then has the audacity to try to charge it to her room.
“Oh hell no. No way are you buying my shit.”
“Consider it on my mum. She’s loaded. Actually, Dad is, too, but you’d never know it.”
“Not happening.” I take hold of her hips and physically lift her up and reposition her out of the way from the register. “I pay for my own shit, got it?” Realizing where my hands are, I remove them, then punch in my number to bill it to my room.
“Such a guy,” she says under her breath as I shove the stuff I really didn’t need, aside from the boxer-briefs, into a bag.
“I savagely murdered people a day and a half ago, and here I am, bagging my own underwear.”
“I’d hardly call what you did savage. More so well-deserved.”
At the realization I must’ve said that out loud and not in my head, I drop the bag onto the floor.
“The things I wish I had the chance to do to those men are savage, trust me.” I bend down and pick up the heavy bag.
“Is that too much information?” I face her, worried she might be thinking about the island now.
“Hardly TMI.” She smiles. Thank God her happy mood appears to still be intact. “Maybe not first-date material, though. Not that we’re on one, but you know what I mean.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I swallow as her eyes lock on to mine, and something unspoken passes between us. I need to shut this down fast.
I come up with the best distraction I can think of. “Now, what do you want, and we’ll add it to my tab?”
“Stickers, but they don’t sell them here.
And the rig is free, courtesy of Carter, so .
. .” She playfully pats my chest before she starts for the closed doors, only to abruptly stop.
“Oh wait, we forgot your hat. Or maybe it’s Constantine’s.
Either way, I forgot it on the table.” She takes off and grabs it for me, and with the bag in hand, I meet her halfway.
I hide my messy hair under the plain black cap but keep the brim facing forward this time. I need something to shield my eyes as much as I can since I can’t seem to stop staring at her this morning. I gesture with my bag for the exit. “Lead the way.”
She walks ahead of me to open the doors, and I peer at the camera. Knowing Malachi is watching me, I bow my head, like he can read the mess in my mind as well as on my face.
I know, I know. But I can’t. Not with her. Not ever.
I’ll need to fly solo for the rest of my damn life, because I’ll never let anyone be a runner-up to her. And I know I won’t ever meet another woman who makes me feel the way she does.