Page 17 of Haunted

“Come on.” Keaton took hold of my hand once again. “Let’s get you fed.”

Utilizing the sidewalk, we made our way back to his building. The whole time, his thumb brushed lazy circles on the back of my hand while his head moved on a constant swivel, looking out for whatever danger we might possibly encounter at the ass-crack of dawn. He also positioned himself so his massive body was the closest to the parking lot.

Those actions, while probably instinctual for Keaton, spoke louder than any words ever could. With each step we took, any reservations I had about the man at my side began to fade away until only one thought remained.

I was truly safe with him.

4CRAZED KILLER WITH A FOOT FETISH

Keaton

When the hell was the last time I’d been to the grocery store?

Peering into the sparsely stocked refrigerator after getting Henley settled at the breakfast bar, I had my answer. Too damn long ago. Luckily, there was a half a carton of eggs, a bit of shredded cheddar cheese, and a few slices of ham which—according to the date on the package—were still good.

“Omelets okay?” I asked, loading up my arms with the meager ingredients.

“Perfect.”

Placing everything on the counter next to the stove, I turned in time to see her open the little black bag she’d retrieved from her car. I wasn’t a complete idiot, however since I didn’t know any other diabetics, the night I watched the EMTs check her over was the first time I’d seen a device similar to the one she was holding.

“What’s that?”

“A glucometer,” she answered, flipping it around to give me a better look.

“Can you show me how it works?”

She studied me for a moment before pulling the rest of her supplies out of the bag. I watched in awe as she pricked her finger, then carefully slid a small testing strip into the edge of the tiny bubble of blood. From there, she inserted the strip into the front of the machine—which turned on automatically—then a few seconds later the results flashed across the screen.

“One thirty seven. Is that good?”

“Yeah, it’s not too bad at all.”

While she packed up her supplies, I moved back to the stove and pulled out two pans from the cabinet underneath. After coating them with cooking spray, I placed them on top of the burners, turned the dials to medium heat and began the preparations for our meal.

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Sure.” Peering over my shoulder, I was struck instantly by how perfect she looked in my space. Even with her messy hair she’d haphazardly thrown up into a ponytail and her clothes slightly rumpled from having slept in them, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. “How about you grab us some coffee? Shit, you drink coffee, right?”

The sweet, melodious sound of her laughter had my dick stirring in my pants for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

“Coffee is life.”

I nodded toward the opposite end of the counter. “Keurig is there, pods are next to it, and the mugs are in the corner cabinet along with sweetener. There’s also creamer in the fridge.”

Flipping the first omelet, I tried to ignore the swayof her hips when she strolled past me after grabbing the bottle of French vanilla creamer from the fridge. However, when she got on her tiptoes to reach the mugs and her sweatshirt rose up just enough to reveal a strip of creamy, pale skin at her waist, I was lost to the view.

“How do you take yours?”

The innocent question snapped me out of my trance in time to remove our food from the heat before it burned. Moving to the toaster, I popped a couple of slices of sourdough in the appliance before answering, “One sugar and a splash of cream, please.”

Once everything was complete, I carried our plates over to the dark wooden table, which was located outside of the kitchen to the left of the living room. More often than not, it was used as a desk instead of for its intended purpose, therefore, after setting our food down on the corner, I gathered the mound of case files I’d strewn about last night along with my laptop and moved them to the farthest end.

“I guess being an FBI agent means your job doesn’t end when you leave the office, huh?”

Henley deposited our mugs on the table, then settled into the chair I pulled out.

“Unfortunately, criminals don’t keep bankers’ hours,” I quipped, lowering myself into the seat across from her.

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