Page 57 of Looking Grimm

“You said that investigator Felix is still alive,” Nash replied. Squeezing around me, he got his own toothbrushand loaded it with a stripe of paste.

I flipped down the toilet lid and sat on it, crossing my arms and kicking one leg over the other. “Last I heard. Why?”

After dousing the toothbrush in water, Nash stuffed it in his cheek long enough to ask, “What would he say about it?”

“About what?”

He scrubbed then spit into the sink. “Whoever hurt him. Tried to kill him. He would know it wasn’t you.”

I snorted. “Unless they were illusioned like that schmuck who gassed the bullpen.”

Nash ran the brush over his tongue, then rinsed and spit again before replying, “It’s a shot, at least.”

“You think I should try to talk to him?” I asked. “I’m not even sure he’s conscious. Or where to find him.” Or if he would vouch for me. He had once before, but so much had happened since then. Still, I had to consider the possibility. Holland wouldn’t listen to reason, but Felix had always been a soft touch. Maybe his luck would rub off on me.

“I could make some calls.” Nash folded his arms as he leaned against the doorframe.

I shied back, shaking my head. “I really don’t want you involved in this.”

More than that, I desperately needed him to keep clear of it. Prison was a grim fate, but there were far worse alternatives.

Nash’s smirk caused his ruddy cheeks to dimple. “And yet I keep finding ways to insert myself. Why do you suppose that is?”

Sighing, I stood. “Boredom?”

He fixed me with a knowing look. “Because you don’twant to do this alone, and I’m not inclined to let you.”

“Well, you helped,” I told him. “I hadn’t even thought about Felix.”

Speaking of the investigator made me think of his coworkers actively trying to sniff out my trail. The Bronco was still parked out front, a decidedly recognizable vehicle with damage and bloodstains that served as testament to my misadventures. Usually, there would be no reason for investigators to venture this far afield, but since the Bitters’ End had been established as a hangout of mine, they might come snooping.

“I gotta move the car,” I said, and Nash cleared the path for me to venture into the bedroom.

Sunlight beamed around the drapes that obscured the glass balcony doors, casting a warm glow across the space. I expected it to be cold out, so I layered up in thermals and jeans and grabbed Nash’s stocking cap from atop the bedside table lamp.

Nash stood by, observing with that same pleased look from earlier. When I bent to tighten the laces of my tennis shoes, he gave a wolf whistle.

I glared back at him. “Seriously?” I asked, trying to sound exasperated.

He walked forward, wearing only sweatpants that did little to obscure the shape of his morning wood. When his hands rubbed down my arms, my body started a slow lean toward him.

“Don’t get too comfy in all those clothes,” he said in a husky voice. “They’re coming off as soon as you get back.”

Desire stirred in my gut. How had I stayed away from him so long before this? It felt impossible now.

“Nash, I have work to do,” I murmured, then swallowed, thinking about the things I would rather do with my mouth than argue.

It was too easy for him to sweep me up and carry me away. He hardly had to try. Something in his presence, his proximity, consumed me.

Nash’s hands slid down my sides where he took hold of my belt loops. He jerked my hips against his, and I groaned.

“Then we’ll do it your way,” he replied. “Make it quick.”

Despite the tingling sense of need making my dick hard, I tried to peel away from him. “The car, Nash.” I dragged the words out. “I gotta move the damn car…”

When he nuzzled into my neck, I was all but done.

“Maybe we could make it quickinthe car,” I thought aloud.

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