From behind her bedroom door comes the sound of running water. Shower. My mind conjures images I shouldn't be thinking—water running over skin I've never seen, hands I've watched serve drinks now washing away the day.
I push those thoughts aside and check my gun. Full clip, one in the chamber.
The water stops. Footsteps across hardwood. Her door opens a crack.
"Eamon?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For tonight. For staying."
"Just protecting what's mine."
Silence stretches between us through the thin door.
"Is that what I am?" she asks. "Yours?"
The question hangs in the air like a challenge. I want to kick down that door and show her exactly what she is to me. Want to pin her against the wall and claim her mouth until she stops asking stupid questions.
Instead, I grip the arm of the couch until my knuckles turn white.
"Get some sleep, Sorcha."
Her door closes. The deadbolt clicks.
I settle onto the couch with my gun within reach. Outside, Boston sleeps while I guard a woman who's becoming an obsession.
Through the thin walls, I hear her moving around. The soft sound of fabric hitting the floor. A drawer opening and closing. The creak of mattress springs as she settles into bed.
I close my eyes and try not to picture her in whatever she wears to sleep. Try not to think about how easy it would be to pick that lock and join her.
Tomorrow we'll establish routines. Set boundaries. Pretend this arrangement is professional.
Tonight, I listen to her breathe through thin walls and plan all the ways I want to make her mine.
CHAPTER
TEN
The smellof coffee wakes me before the sound of movement in my kitchen. For a moment, I forget where I am and why there's a man making breakfast in my apartment. Then reality crashes back—Eamon Kavanagh, sleeping on my couch, his body between me and the rival gangsters who want me dead.
I wrap my robe tight and pad barefoot to the kitchen. He stands at my counter, back to me, wearing yesterday's jeans and nothing else. His shoulders show old scars—knife wounds, bullet grazes, the marks of a man who's survived Boston's streets since he was a teenager.
"Morning," I say, voice still rough with sleep.
He turns, coffee mug halfway to his lips. Dark stubble covers his jaw, hair messed from sleep. The sight of his bare chest makes my mouth go dry.
"Did I wake you?"
"No." I move to the cabinet for my own mug, hyperaware of his eyes tracking my movement. "Thank you for making coffee."
"Least I could do." He steps aside but doesn't give me much room at the machine. His body radiates heat, close enough that I catch his scent—clean male skin and danger underneath.
"You take it black?" he asks.
"Cream, no sugar."
He opens my refrigerator without asking, retrieves the carton. When he hands it to me, his fingers brush mine. The contact sends heat racing up my arm.
