Page 21 of Mensa's Match

Her grin held an edge to it. “No, we focus on more useful intel. And we were investigating your uncle, not you.”

She talked a good game, but the quaver in her tone when she said the last two words gave her away.

“All yours,” she said, sweeping her arm toward the bathroom. “You’re welcome to use the shampoo… and the conditioner, if that’s how you roll.”

“The bar of soap works for me.”

Her eyes widened so drastically, he battled against his laughter. “You use bar soap and get waves like those? Are you shitting me?”

His brows drew together. “No. At home, I use shampoo. For tonight, I’m sure I’ll be fine—”

She put her hand to his chest, and he tipped his chin down giving it a scathing look. “Please, don’t be so proud. Use the damned shampoo.”

His eyes traveled from her hand in his chest to her earnest gaze. “Move your hand, and stop being so dramatic, and I’ll use your damned shampoo.”

She dropped her hand and in a bizarre twist, he immediately missed having it there. “Sorry. I know better. I’m having some wine, and I can pour you a glass if you want.”

He needed his head examined because for some reason, he nodded. “Sure, but just one. I need to be on my toes.”

“Because a Corrupt Chrome member can come hunt you down?”

His lips tipped up ever so slightly. “No. Because a former FBI agent insists I share a bed with her tonight. Never in my life did I think I’d be a literal example of strange bedfellows.”

She grinned, coy as hell. “I’m not a fellow, Mensa. Enjoy your shower.”

Half an hour later, Mensa threw his empty plastic cup at the trash can across the room. It hit the target, but the rustling sound of the trash bag wasn’t half as satisfying as hearing the cup thunk would have been.

If Whitney decided to give up law enforcement, she had to consider going into sales. She was just that convincing. His one glass of wine had turned into two-and-a-half. Mainly because she tempted him with Skittles and an asinine assertion that they ‘paired’ well with the dry white wine.

He doubted his love of Skittles was in the file.

There was zero doubt he’d ever pair Skittles with pinot grigio again.

“That’s impressive. Getting an empty plastic cup into the trashcan isn’t easy. They aren’t dense enough, and most people over throw because of that,” Whitney said, her plastic cup held near her mouth. She had her ass planted in the bed, her back against the headboard, and her long legs tucked under the covers.

He shoved himself out of the uncomfortable chair at the desk. “I’m talented, what can I say? I’m gonna brush my teeth now before they rot from sugar overload. You need the bathroom?”

She shook her head and kept the cup in front of her mouth. “Nope. You do your thing.”

He felt her eyes on him as he crossed to the bathroom, tagging the toothbrush along his way. Midnight was fast approaching. Four hours ago, if someone would have told him he’d be holed up in a hotel room with this woman, who rubbed him the wrong way for months… he’d have busted a gut, just before busting that someone’s nose.

After he finished getting ready for bed, he came out to find Whitney with her phone in her hand and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was scrolling through various sounds on her phone.

“What in the hell are you doing, woman?”

She looked up at him with a serious expression. “I am hell on wheels when I don’t get my sleep. I’m pretty low maintenance most of the time, but when it comes to sleep… no. The idea of sleeping in my clothes turns my stomach. Hence, buying a sleep shirt. Sad to say, those people who make memes have it allwrong. Southernersaren’tthe only people who can sleep through gunfire, thunder, and tornadoes, but sit up wide awake without their box fan. I’m not Southern, and I cannot go without my fan.”

He made a rolling motion with his hand. “Okay, but what’s that got to do with your phone?”

She lowered her chin a touch. “I’m looking for the right white noise. They have a box fan option, but it sounds so fake it’s laughable.”

Her finger touched the screen, the room filled with a noise that sounded like a fan in a huge warehouse.

“That’s the box fan?”

“Yeah.”

He wandered to the opposite side of the bed. “Put it on the beach or ocean waves and be done with it.”

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