Page 71 of One Wrong Move
“Okay.” He angled to face her better. “Take your best shot.”
“Let’s see. You’re pensive.”
He ducked his chin in. “Pensive. That doesn’t sound so good.”
“Thoughtful,” she said. “Is that better?”
“Much. I like the idea of being thoughtful. Anything else?” He shifted to face her better still.
“You love and are loyal to your family, you excel at what you do...” This was just going to go to his head, but he’d asked. “And you take things in stride, for the most part.”
He straightened, curiosity dancing in his eyes. “For the most part?”
She bit her lip, trying to think how to best phrase it. “You carry something around with you.”
He didn’t argue, which spoke volumes. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I know what it’s like to carry something.” She carried the weight and stigma of who they’d painted her to be. Her colleagues. Her then fiancé. Nearly everyone in her life. “But yours is different than mine....”
“Oh?” His shoulders grew taut.
She wasn’t trying to upset him. She just hated seeing him hurting—and he was. The question was why. She reached out and brushed the hair from his brow.
He jolted a little at her touch.
“Sorry.” She moved her hand back.
“No,” he said, his deep voice low. “It felt good.”
She swallowed. “I can just see you’re hurting,” she said, deciding to be bold. “It’s like you’re...”
“I’m...” He furrowed his brow, inching closer to her.
Her breath slipped from her lungs as his deep gaze fixed on her.
“It’s like you’re punishing yourself for something.”
He stiffened and looked down.
“I’m sorry....” She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean to...”
He looked back up—the weight of emotion heavy in his deep, brown eyes. “It’s okay.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to the footage. We’ve got a lot before us.”
“Okay...” she said, biting her bottom lip.
She should have been quiet. Not pushed. She didn’t like when people pushed her, but the ache he wore hurt her.
THIRTY-FIVE
HARPER ROLLEDthe paper wrapper from her sub into a ball and tossed it in the trash can across the room.
“Nice shot,” Deckard said. Quite the distance.
“Thanks.” She shrugged.
He did the same with his wrapper.
Greyson, of course, ever the dapper and distinguished man, simply stood and placed his wrapper in.
