Chapter 5
Chapter five
Aaron
The self-defense session ends with both of us breathing hard and pretending the touches didn’t mean anything.
Megan’s cheeks are flushed pink, curls sticking to her temples in damp ringlets, green eyes bright with adrenaline and something far more dangerous.
Something that makes my blood run hotter every time she looks at me.
I step back first, because if I don’t, I’m going to do something stupid like pin her against the porch railing and kiss her until she forgets her own name.
“Shower,” I say, voice rougher than I want it to be. “We’ve got work.”
She nods, still catching her breath, but the small, knowing smile she gives me is pure trouble. “Yes, sir.”
I turn away before I can respond to that. The word “sir” lands like a spark on dry grass.
By the time she comes back out, hair damp and wearing one of my old gray T-shirts, I’ve already pulled the kitchen table into a makeshift war room.
Laptop open, burner phone on its charger, stack of printed records Mae quietly faxed over at 0600.
Coffee is brewing, and I pour two cups, black for me, two sugars and a splash of cream for her.
I noticed how she took it yesterday when she raided my cupboard.
I don’t know why I remembered. I shouldn’t have.
She stops in the doorway, eyeing the setup.
“You’ve been busy.”
“I know how important this is to you.” I slide her mug across the island. My fingers brush hers when she takes it. Neither of us pulls away fast enough. The touch lingers, sending a jolt straight up my arm. “Figured we’d start digging while we wait for Gray to clear the next move.”
She wraps her hands around the mug, inhales deeply, eyes closing for a second in appreciation. “You made it exactly how I like it.”
I shrug, but my voice comes out lower than intended. “I pay attention.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, soft, searching, a little too long. “Dangerous habit.”
The air between us thickens again. I lean one elbow on the island, closing the distance just a fraction. “You saying I shouldn’t?”
She smiles slowly, teasing. “I’m saying it makes a girl wonder what else you pay attention to.”
My pulse kicks. “Keep wondering.”
She laughs, soft and breathy, and takes a sip, her lips wrapping around the rim of the mug in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “You’re good at this, you know.”
“Coffee?”
“Flirting.”
I raise a brow. “Who says I’m flirting?”
She sets the mug down, leans forward until her face is inches from mine. “Your eyes do.”
I hold her gaze. Don’t back away. The tension is palpable, humming like a live wire. I can smell her shampoo from here. “Careful, trouble. You’re playing with fire.”
She doesn’t blink. “Maybe I like the burn.”
I step back before I do something reckless. Clear my throat. Records are from the county clerk’s office. Public filings, zoning variances, and transfer deeds. Nothing classified. Yet.”
She slides onto the stool beside me, close enough that her knee brushes mine under the table. Neither of us moves away.
We work.
I pull contacts I still have from my time in the military—old intel guys, retired clerks, a PI in Austin who owes me a favor.
Quiet inquiries. Nothing that leaves a digital footprint.
Megan explains what she’s uncovered as we go.
She describes how Ramsey’s shell companies bought up distressed ranches on the cheap, how variances were fast-tracked through the county commission, how Tate’s name appears on too many approval stamps for coincidence.
She’s brilliant.
The way her mind works, sharp, fast, connecting dots I didn’t even see, makes me want to listen to her talk for hours. Makes me want to do a lot of things.
She leans over to point at a line in the records, her shoulder pressing against mine, hair brushing my arm. The contact is innocent. The heat it sends through me isn’t.
“See this?” she says, finger tracing the paper. “Tate signed off on the variance the same day Ramsey wired the money. It’s too clean.”
I nod. “We need the bank trail.”
She looks up at me. Her face is so close, her eyes bright. “You have someone who can get it?”
I smile. “I have people.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a spark in it. “Of course you do. Big bad bodyguard with all the connections.”
“Jealous?”
“Of your connections?” She tilts her head, smile turning teasing. “Or of the fact that you get to play hero while I sit here in your borrowed clothes?”
My eyes drop to the T-shirt she’s wearing. It clings to her curves perfectly. “You look good in my clothes.”
Her breath catches. “Careful, Jenkins. That really sounded like flirting.”
I lean closer. “Must be your imagination.”
She doesn’t pull away. “Must be.”
The moment stretches, our eyes locked, breaths mingling. I can see the pulse in her throat fluttering. Mine matches.
I stand first. “More coffee?”
She exhales and sits back. “Please.”
I refill her mug. When I hand it to her, our fingers brush again, deliberately this time.
As we work, Megan steals my flannel shirt off the back of the couch because “it’s warmer than anything in the guest drawer,” and damn if seeing her in my clothes doesn’t do something dangerous to my chest. The sleeves are too long; she rolls them up, but they keep slipping.
Every time she pushes them back, I notice the way the soft fabric clings to her curves, the way it smells like me now, mixed with her vanilla shampoo.
We break for lunch. I make grilled cheese and tomato soup. I think she needs some comfort food. She sits on the counter while I cook, legs swinging, stealing bites of cheese off the cutting board.
“Careful,” she teases, popping a piece in her mouth and licking her thumb slowly, deliberately. “You’re going to spoil me.”
I lean one hip against the counter beside her, arms crossed. “You complaining?”
She meets my eyes, smiling wickedly. “Not yet. But keep feeding me like this, and I might never leave.”
My jaw tightens. “That a threat or a promise?”
She laughs. It’s soft, low, and dangerous. “Depends on how good you are at keeping me.”
I turn back to the stove before I do something stupid.
Afternoon bleeds into evening.
We move to the couch for the late-night research session. Laptops balanced on thighs, files spread across the coffee table. The fire I started earlier crackles low, throwing warm light across her face. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, still wearing my flannel.
Every time she leans over to point at something on my screen, her hair brushes my arm. Every time I shift to reach a file, my thigh presses harder against hers. The tension is a living thing, thick and electric, humming between us.
She yawns, stretches, arching her back in a way that pulls the flannel tight across her breasts—the top button strains. I look away. Fast.
“You’re tired,” I say. “We should call it a night.”
“In a minute.” She rubs her eyes, keeps reading. “I just want to cross-reference this transfer date with—”
Her head drops. Slowly. Until it lands on my shoulder.
I freeze.
She’s asleep.
Her breathing evens out, soft and steady. Her hand rests on my thigh. It’s totally innocent, but I can’t stop my heart from hammering so hard I’m sure she can feel it.
I should wake her. Move her. Put distance between us.
Instead, I sit perfectly still.
Minutes pass. Her breathing deepens. She shifts closer, curling into my side like she belongs there with her face tucked against my neck, one arm draped across my stomach, fingers curling loosely in my shirt.
The flannel rides up a little. Her bare thigh presses against mine.
I close my eyes. Breathe through my nose. Count to ten.
It doesn’t help.
I give up pretending I don’t want to touch her when I slide one arm behind her back, the other under her knees, and lift her carefully.
She murmurs something soft, doesn’t wake.
I carry her down the hall to the bedroom, my bedroom, and lay her on the sheets I changed this morning.
She looks small in the big bed, peaceful, vulnerable.
I pull the covers over her, tuck them around her shoulders. Brush a curl off her forehead. My touch on her skin—soft, warm, perfect.
She sighs in her sleep, turns toward my hand, and nuzzles into my palm.
I stare at her face long enough to memorize the shape of her lashes, the faint freckles on her nose, the way her lips part slightly when she breathes.
I want to crawl in beside her.
I want to pull her against my chest, feel her heartbeat against mine, feel her safe and warm and mine.
I don’t.
I step back. Force myself to the doorway.
Gray’s rule echoes again: No personal involvement. But it’s too late. I’m already involved. I’m already hers.
I close the bedroom door softly, walk back to the couch, and lie down. Sleep doesn’t come. All I can think about is her in my bed, wearing my shirt, breathing my air, and how badly I want to be in there with her.