CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Dublin
I don’t remember how we ended up on the couch.
At some point there was a need for sustenance.
That’s where the wine came in. Then when I felt giddy—blamed it on the wine but I’m sure it was Cole being here—I put a board together.
Cheese, crackers, and other delicious things that made me feel like I was still in control.
Clearly, with this situation, I am certainly not.
Now, he’s stretched out across the couch cushions, his head in my lap, looking up at me, one arm draped over his bare stomach like he owns the place.
Like he belongs here.
I run my fingers through his hair without thinking. It’s thick and soft and this whole thing feels surreal. Like . . . how did this happen? How did we get here?
The same damn questions I’ve been asking myself for a week, now they’re just much louder and way harder to ignore. Before there was just the memory of that first night, and now it’s him physically present and our chemistry undeniable.
Cole exhales slowly, eyes half open, and body completely at ease in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen him. Not in the facility. Not under pressure. Not when the world is watching.
Just here with me. Why does that feel like such a dangerous thought?
In the past few weeks, I’ve gone over this man’s life with a fine-toothed comb so I feel like I know him intensely—and physically, I do—but none of my outside knowledge comes directly from him.
I don’t know if that’s better or worse considering the chaotic emotions rioting through me as I study his face and settle in the comfort his presence provides.
“So,” I say, because in this moment, the silence and my overthinking feel like more of a risk than a reward. “Tell me about all your women.”
Yeah. Definitely not what I intended to ask.
By the way his eyes flutter open, slow and amused, I know he’s questioning it too.
“That’s what you want to go with?” he asks, a lazy grin crawling over his lips. “After what we just did?”
I shrug, trying for nonchalance I don’t entirely feel. “Call it information gathering.”
He snorts. “For the investigation or for you?” he jokes, but his eyes say he’s serious.
“It’s a valid question given the situation we find ourselves in.”
“It is, but not for pillow talk.” His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he studies me for a second. Is he deciding how honest to be? “Two-way street on the questions?”
“I have nothing to hide,” I say and take a sip of my wine.
“Okay.” He nods. “I date around. Nothing serious as of late. Doesn’t really fit.”
“What doesn’t? The dating part or the serious part?”
“Both?” At least he’s honest. “My life, my schedule, the demands on me . . . it’s a lot.
I don’t have time to invest in someone like that and have learned from the guys that most women say they can handle it, but once the excitement of dating an NFL quarterback wears off, the stress of the situation shows the cracks in the foundation. ”
“So you just . . .” I gesture vaguely trying to find the words that won’t wound me in the process. I fail. “Show up, hook up, and then walk away?”
His eyes flick up to mine. “Something like that.”
Gotta appreciate his honesty.
“Well, shit.” I bark out a laugh. “Doesn’t bode well for me now, does it?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you plan on walking away.”
My fingers still in his hair for half a second. How in the hell am I supposed to take that? “That sounds like a challenge, Valor.”
“Maybe it is.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Pretty sure I’m the one who came knocking on your door tonight, Trouble. Maybe I’m willing to experiment.”
“And maybe you know where your bread is being buttered and don’t want to piss her off.”
He laughs, grabs my hand, and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to its palm.
It shouldn’t feel like anything.
It feels like everything.
“Your turn. Same question,” he asks.
“I guess it’s the same as you. I travel a lot for work. I don’t like to deal with bullshit in general and especially not someone else’s, so . . . neither are conducive to anything long-term.”
“So, no long line of broken hearts behind you?”
“Please,” I scoff. “I don’t stick around long enough for that.”
He grins. “I don’t believe you for a second.”
“You don’t have to.” I pause. “Says the man who probably has to sneak out because he can’t remember her name in the morning.”
“I believe you were the one trying to sneak out of my place.” He quirks a brow.
“I was not.” I feign innocence, placing a hand over his face that he wrestles playfully away.
“Uh-huh. You were.” He laces his fingers with mine to hold it still on his chest. “And hey, I love how there’s just an assumption that I’m a fuckboy.”
I arch an eyebrow. “If the shoe fits . . .”
He chuckles. “Don’t believe everything you read on social media.”
Interesting. It matters to him what I think of him.
Is he trying to figure me out? I have to admit, I like that. He wants to know me.
“You know that despite that this case is almost over, it doesn’t mean I want to be done with whatever this is, right? Not even close.”
And as much as I don’t know what to do with those words, the possibility sends a small, unexpected thrill through me. I’m the one who figures people and patterns out and rarely has that been turned back on me.
So I deflect.
“What’s a thing people always get wrong about you?” I ask.
His grin fades, not completely, but enough.
“That I don’t care,” he says after a beat. “I do. Too much sometimes.”
I look down at him, my smile soft, compassionate. “Why act indifferent then?”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “Because years of hearing you need to be fucking better than that makes you numb, in some respects.”
I’m glad he can’t see me struggling to withhold the dozen follow-up questions swirling through my head. Every single one of them leads back to his dad.
“Cole . . .”
“Don’t,” he says gently, his mouth curving but his eyes don’t reflect it.
Fine. I won’t go there. Won’t push.
“Your turn,” I say quickly not wanting to be in this space for too long.
He doesn’t hesitate. “What do you do when you’re not . . . this?” He gestures vaguely. “The job. The brain. The always on thing.”
I chuckle quietly. “I don’t know that I have an answer for that.”
“Try.”
Why is it so hard to talk about myself? Why do I feel like I’m letting him into a world only I know—and why do I want to?
“I read. I run. I people watch in airports and make up stories about them so my brain can stop thinking of everything else.” I glance down at him. “You?”
“This,” he says. “Nothing. Silence. People who don’t need anything from me.”
My fingers twist around his hair.
The man I once saw as the life of the party needs to step back and recalibrate?
I would have never thought that. It’s something I can relate to, but I’m me—structured and scheduled. And he’s, more of a free spirit. I wonder if his need to do this is because of his—
“How long was the last time you stayed?” he asks.
“Stayed?” I ask.
“Instead of leaving another broken heart behind?” His eyes search mine as I still.
Guess he wasn’t finished with that topic.
“Long enough to know I shouldn’t,” I say, but not referring to any relationship in particular.
“Is there a story there?” he asks.
“Not really but when it runs its course, it runs its course. I’ve never been one to hang on for fear of being alone. I’m busy and it’s just too much drama that I don’t have time for.”
He doesn’t ask more. He doesn’t joke. He just takes it in, lips pursed and head nodding once, and I wonder why it matters to him.
I clear my throat. “Next question?”
He chuckles and accepts my change of topic much in the same way I did when I wanted to ask about his dad.
“Why this? Your job?” he asks.
“Probably the same as you”—I tug on his hair—“because I’m really good at it.”
“Clearly.”
“I needed an internship in college and fell into a role at GIA. It was a menial position, one solely to put on my resume. One day while scanning documents in the system for a really tough case, I mentioned a pattern I saw in it. That pattern is what cracked the case open. Marcus was impressed and offered me a full-time job when I graduated.”
“Impressive.”
I shrug. “I like the structure and logic of it all. You follow data and it leads you somewhere.”
“And people?”
I look down and smile. “They complicate it.”
“Some. Most.” He rocks his head from side to side, his hair tickling my bare thighs as he does. “That’s why I keep my circle small. Less complications when you’ve known each other since high school and can read each other like a book.”
“The guys that were at practice the other week?”
“Yep. Jaxon, Malachi, and Tristan.” His voice is easy, familiar. “We do drinks after practice on Wednesdays, and then I hang with them before I come in for games on Sundays. It’s been our thing since my college days.”
“It’s good to surround yourself with people who ground you,” I say, more of an observation than a question.
And probably people I should run a cursory check on. Not sure how they flew under my radar, but in all my years doing this, the people who’ve been there for the long haul aren’t the culprits.
I make a mental note regardless.
“Yeah. It’s hard to trust people when you find success and these guys knew me when.
They’re my good luck charms . . . come to think of it, maybe we need to switch our schedule up since it seems the luck is wearing thin.
” He says it absently, like the stress of his yips and whatever the fuck else is going on is secondary right now.
There’s something extremely attractive about that to me.
“We had to do that once or twice in college.”
“Did it work?”
“From what I remember.” He smiles but it fades faster than it should.
“You’ll find your footing again, Cole.”
“I better.” His eyes close as my fingers move through his hair again, slower this time. “That feels so good,” he murmurs.
We sit in silence—his eyes closed and mine on him. Two people who claim they don’t have time for anything or anyone else and yet here we are trying to make some.
And maybe that should scare me more than it does.
Because somewhere in the past week this stopped feeling less like a distraction and started feeling dangerously close to something I might actually want.
What does that mean? Why does it feel so important to acknowledge it? And why am I trying to find ways to justify it to my boss so it doesn’t have to end?
You’re not supposed to develop feelings for someone in this short of time. It’s supposed to be all lust, all physical—so why does sitting here like this, talking like this, feel just as intimate?
“You kept my shirt,” he murmurs.
“I did,” I say looking down at it. “Figured it was a solid investment.”
His eyes stay closed but his brows lift. “Really?”
“Quality fabric. I’m guessing it cost more than my car payment.”
He chuckles. “Not quite.”
“Close enough.”
“Looks better on you anyway,” he says.
I lean down and brush my lips against his before I think better of it. An action that screams this is so much more than a fling, but I don’t stop myself.
It’s soft and not meant to turn into anything, but it does anyway.
Because his hand is at the back of my neck, pulling me back into him, his mouth finding mine with a slow, warm certainty that makes my chest tighten in a way I have no business loving as much as I do.
I can deny it all I want, but this isn’t just physical anymore.
We shift as the kiss deepens, like we’ve already learned each other. It feels far too intimate for a situation that I’ve tried to justify as temporary.
His hands slide to my hips and with an ease that shouldn’t be possible, he pulls me over him so I’m straddling his lap.
The kiss stays slow, unhurried, like neither of us wants to rush what this is becoming.
I fall under his spell, the taste of wine on his tongue and the scratch of his stubble beneath my palms are drugs in and of themselves.
And then when he unclips my hair so his fingers can dive into it, I’m completely his.
Smitten. Taken. Desired.
It’s temptation and indulgence in a way I’ve never allowed myself to have before.
I pull back, needing to see him, needing to know if this is just me. His eyes stay closed for a beat longer than mine and when they open, they’re darker and focused on me.
Our gazes hold as his hands slide up my sides, taking the hem of his shirt with them, lifting it slowly, like he’s giving me time to stop.
I don’t.
The fabric clears my head, and the cool air hits my skin.
His gaze drops and the sound he makes—low, rough, guttural—releases a thrill deep inside of me. “So fucking gorgeous.”
Everything narrows to him. To this. To his hands cupping my breasts.
“Dublin . . .” he whispers.
I arch my back into the heat of his hands, into the pull of Cole Valor. I don’t understand it, but I also don’t want to stop.
I don’t want to think or analyze or predict or control.
All I want is to feel.
And right now, with him, that feels like enough.
Even if I know better. Even if I should resist.
My fingers tighten in his hair as I lean into him, letting everything else fall away.
Consequences. Rules. Reality. All of it.
Just for this moment.
Just for him.
Thank God, I didn’t tell him to leave.