Page 97 of Crossfire

“Half hour or so.”

“No.” I tucked a hair behind my ear, half grateful he’d let me change out of my pajamas before coming here, half creeped out he’d packed me a kidnapping bag to make changing possible. “I mean, how long will it take to get the information you’re waiting for?”

Grayson removed a large silver pot from the cabinet, set it on the stove, and turned on a water nozzle I’d only seen on television—the kind that fills the pot right there on the stove.

“Shouldn’t be long,” he said.

I twisted my hands together nervously as Grayson moved about the kitchen.

“Why is this happening?” I tried to keep my voice from quivering.

Grayson turned from the stove, closing the distance between us with a few measured steps. In his eyes, reminiscent of a lush forest, I saw an unexpected tenderness, a concern that seemed to wrap around me like a warm blanket on a cold, stormy night.

“We’ll figure it out.” His voice was a soothing balm. “You’re not alone in this, Ivy.”

No. I’m with the man who was sent to kill me. Because life just wanted to find more ways to be ironic, I guess.

I swallowed hard, fighting the warmth that his proximity ignited within me—a warmth eager to spread through every fiber of my being.

Get a grip. He’s just doing his job, babysitting the target.

“What could I have possibly done to make them think I’m a criminal?”

I mean, come on. Donations? My bank account would laugh at the thought. I didn’t have a lot of friends, so I highly doubted I’d unknowingly hung out with someone on a watch list, and even if I had, surely, the CIA would be smart and thorough enough to tell the difference between a civilian and a national security threat.

Grayson’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t know.” The ragged edge to his voice held notes of despair, like he’d been asking himself that same question nonstop. Like it haunted him, almost as much as it haunted me.

His gaze lifted to mine again, a storm of worry and despair brewing within their emerald specks.

Then, unexpectedly, his hand reached out, brushing against my cheek in a gesture so gentle, so laden with unspoken emotions, that my lungs quivered. The heat of his touch sent a jolt of electricity coursing through me, tethering me to this moment, to him, and to the inexplicable feelings I couldn’t surrender to.

“But like I said, you’re not in this alone, okay?” His voice was a vow, a promise that somehow pierced through the walls I had built around myself.

Suddenly incapable of doing nothing more than nod, I fought against this magnetic pull hijacking my thoughts—ones imagining his chest pressed against mine.

In that moment, the storm outside this cabin ceased to exist. There was only Grayson, with his hand on my cheek, and the undeniable truth that, despite everything, despite my attempts to reject it all, he didn’t feel like an adversary.

He felt like an ally.

An ally staring at my lips while his parted, his chest swelling. After a few moments, he measured the resistance in my stare, before tilting his head and drawing his mouth closer to mine.

So slowly, it was agonizing.

If he’d done it quickly, I wouldn’t have this time to think, this time to panic, but here my heart was, launching a counterattack.

I wanted his lips on mine, but that was the problem. That wasn’t normal.

An ally—that I could get my head around. Anything beyond that? No.

He was still my captor.

I couldn’t fall for a lethal assassin. I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. I refused to.

Especially the one who’d tried to kill me.

No matter what my heart and hormones were telling me, I needed to be smart here, so as difficult as it was to pull away, I stepped back before his lips could land on mine.

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