Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Then it all rushes back. The attack. The escape. Banks Hawthorne and his calm gray-blue eyes. My stomach flips, half fear, half something a lot warmer and more dangerous.
I sit up, finger-comb my messy hair, and tug on the oversized hoodie I grabbed from my duffel last night. My bare legs look ridiculous with the hoodie, but there’s no one here to impress. Except there is. And he is unfairly impressive. I grab a pair of shorts and slip them on. I rush into the bathroom and brush my teeth, and then make my way into the kitchen.
The smell of coffee and something savory hits me halfway down the hallway and makes my mouth water. Banks is already up, of course. He stands at the stove in a fresh black thermal shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders, flipping what looks like pancakes with one hand while his other scrolls across the tablet propped on the counter. His dark hair is slightly tousled, jaw shadowed with morning stubble, and he looks like a man who could star in both an action movie and a very tasteful cologne ad.
God, why does he have to be so ridiculously good-looking? It’s not helpful when I’m trying to stay focused on not dying.
“Morning,” I say, my voice still husky from sleep.
He glances over his shoulder and gives me a small, genuine smile that does unfair things to my pulse. “Morning. Sleep okay?”
“Like a baby. Out cold the second my head hit the pillow. I think my body just decided to file for bankruptcy on all the adrenaline I used yesterday.” I walk closer and lean against the counter, watching him work. “You look like you’ve been up for hours saving the world and making breakfast. Do you ever sleep?”
“Enough.” He slides a pancake onto a plate already stacked with them. “Coffee is fresh. Help yourself.”
I pour a mug, adding way too much sugar because my nerves need it, and sip while I study him. The way his forearms flex when he reaches for the syrup. The focused line between his brows as he checks something on the tablet. Seriously, it should be illegal to look this attractive while making pancakes in a safe house.
I blurt it out before I can stop myself. “Has anyone ever told you that you are stupidly handsome? Like, it’s actually distracting. I’m trying to be scared for my life here and you’re flipping pancakes looking like that. Not helpful, Banks. Not helpful at all.” Oh my God. Shut up, Anniston.
He pauses mid-flip and raises one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Noted.”
I groan and hide my face behind my coffee mug. “I’m so sorry. I get chatty and complimentary when I’m nervous. It’s obviously a problem.”
He chuckles as he sets two plates on the small table and nods toward a chair. “Sit. Eat. You’ll feel better with food in you.”
I sit. The pancakes are golden and perfect, drizzled with syrup and topped with some canned fruit he warmed up. I take a bite and actually moan out loud. “Okay, these are unfairly good. You cook like this and protect people from knife-wielding maniacs? I’m starting to think you’re not a real person.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The food’s warm and grounding, and for a little while the fear from yesterday loosens its grip. But as soon as my plate’s mostly empty, the nerves come rushing back. I set my fork down and reach into the pocket of my hoodie where I have kept the small black USB drive since this morning.
“I need to show you something,” I say, pulling it out and sliding it across the table. “This is why they’re after me. I stole it from the offices of Meridian Financial two weeks ago. It has everything. Transaction logs, shell company names, transfers to that D.C. consultancy I keep seeing pop up. Names. Like Alden Shaw. Dates. Amounts that don’t make sense unless someone’s moving a lot of dirty money.”
Banks picks up the USB, turning it over in his fingers. His expression shifts into full professional mode, but his eyes stay warm when they meet mine. “After breakfast,” he says firmly. “Finish eating first. Then we’ll go through it together on the secure laptop.”
I nod and force down the last few bites, my knee bouncing under the table. When we’re both done, he clears the plates with quick efficiency and pulls out a rugged black laptop from his bag. We move to the couch. He plugs in the USB and opens the files while I sit close enough to feel the heat radiating from his arm.
Every time a new document loads, my heart races. I keep sneaking glances at him instead of the screen. The concentrated furrow of his brow. The way his jaw tightens when he reads something particularly bad. The steady strength in his hands as he scrolls.