Page 39 of Whistleblower

His black button-down shirt is untucked and his pants are creased in the upper thighs. It looks like he’s been sitting for a while. Even his normally neat stubble is borderline scruffy. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just got back into town. Callen’s supposed to meet me here.”

“I think I’m the last to leave. You might have to call him.”

He nods. “Car trouble?”

“Boot trouble,” I complain. He looks at my feet first, then realizes I’m talking about the orange metal contraption around my back driver’s side wheel.

“Turn around and cover your ears,” he commands in a mumble before reaching for his holster. “I’ll take it off.”

“Linc! No!” I place my hands against his arms in protest and then immediately rip them back as if I touched a hot stove. I almost forgot for a moment that our last encounter was what could only be interpreted as rejection. He probably doesn’t want me touching him. “You’ll put a hole through my tire.”

“You underestimate me,” he says with a smirk. “I’m a fantastic shot.”

“Well just in case you’re having an off night, I don’t think I have a spare or a jack.”

He raises one brow. “You can change a tire?”

“Of course.”

“Can you change your own oil?”

I scowl at him. “I can add windshield wiper fluid so that counts for something, right?”

Good grief he’s handsome, especially when he laughs. His smile lights up his eyes and I’m mesmerized every time.

“I’d offer you a ride, but my car is incapacitated at the moment.”

“How’d you get here?” I ask, looking around.

He doesn’t offer an answer, instead, he asks, “Can you pop your trunk?”

As I open the trunk of my spacious SUV, momentarily, I’m appreciative of the size. When Callen first showed me the vehicle, I asked him if he thought I was a soccer mom with four kids. That’s the only way I could justify the bus they issued me. I would’ve much preferred a little sedan in the D.C. traffic. Callen said he’d work on a swap but it’s been weeks, and I’m still stuck with my bus.

However, right now, the trunk of the SUV transforms into a makeshift fort. I push the button to flatten the third row and Linc hops in.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“Exhausted.” He groans in appreciation as he sits, his legs knocking against the bumper. He’s so tall his feet almost touch the ground. He pats the space right next to him. “Join me?”

“You sure?” I cross my arms, trying to be playful, but the question is genuine.

“Yes?” he asks, looking confused.

“Last time we were that close, you bolted from my office. I don’t want to spook you again, especially because you don’t look like you’re in running condition.” What have you been up to Lincoln?

He sighs as he tilts his head to the side. His blue eyes meet mine. “You want another lie?”

Damn, he’s cute. The killer is cute.

“Sure.”

“I haven’t spent the entire week kicking myself for not kissing you. I don’t regret leaving your office like that at all.”

My heart thuds loudly. I’m too old for these butterfly-infused, childish games, but God does it feel good to have a little hope. “Why’d you leave?”

He pats the space next to him again. It’s a clear trade—I sit, he talks. Of course, I oblige, hopping up to sit next to him, I leave a generous chunk of space between us. He’s not satisfied. Jerking his head to the side, Linc invites me to get closer. I feel a little foolish as I shimmy to his side, but I’m rewarded with his large, warm hand on my thigh. The air is brisk tonight, but between my thick denim jeans and Linc touching me, I think I could break a sweat.

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