Page 31 of Right Number, Wrong Man
Stop it, Hailey!
Why did Andrea put this stuff in my head? Colt being cute? Colt being sexy?!
I’m losing my mind.
His free hand clenches into a fist and I worry he’ll murder me with some black ops technique. Mike said Colt doesn’t speak about his deployments because he was part of a special task force. I bet he knows a million ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident.
My pussy aches.
Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be.
And what is with his clothes? Colt always wears button-down shirts and suit jackets with jeans and boots. Plus a hat, of course. Any variation of that outfit is like his civilian uniform and he never strays from it.
But now, he’s wearing a T-shirt with little buttons at the collar. And his belt—what the? The buckle is open. Where is his gun? He doesn’t leave the house without it. Ever.
Was he in the middle of changing when he came down here?
Colt smooths over his hair and puts on his hat, taking a step closer. My pulse ratchets up as I smell his spicy cologne with a hint of nutmeg and smoky wood.
That’s it. I steel myself. He’s going to fire me and I couldn’t be mad at him if he did. I would fire myself, too. I mean, who in their right mind attacks their boss with a mop?
Tears mist up my eyes.
No big deal. I’ll lose my job and then I’ll lose the apartment and soon I’ll be begging on the streets while Colt laughs at me?—
“Care to explain why you attacked me like a rabid animal?” he asks, pointing at the mop lying on the floor between us. It’s like a symbolic divide. Very fitting.
I clear my throat as I cross my arms. “Thought… you were… murderer…” I mumble.
Colt clicks his tongue and crosses his arms, too. I’m not sure if he’s mocking me by mimicking my stance, but I drop my arms to spoil his fun. Just in case.
A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Speak up! Normally people can hear you hollerin’ two counties over. Don’t be gettin’ all shy now.”
I roll my eyes.
“Your face has subtitles, Spitfire,” he drawls. “If I got a dollar for every time you roll your eyes at me, I’d be the richest man in the fuckin’ world.”
My cheeks flash with heat. Does he have to take that outrageously sexy tone with me? And what did he call me…Spitfire?
Colt is scary when he’s angry, but right now the rage flickering in his gaze makes me want to push him over theedge. I want this controlled, stern man to lose it. Just once. There must be more to him than that unflappable façade.
What lurks beneath? And what would he do to me if he lost his temper?
“I. Thought. You. Were. A. Mur-de-rer,” I bite out, over-enunciating every syllable. “Got it now? Or are you as slow as your stupid Southern drawl?”
One corner of his mouth twitches up. It lasts only a second and if I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I would never believe it.
Was that the ghost of a smile?
“You were gonna fight off a killerwith a mop? Thewetend, no less?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.
“Should I have used my bare hands? Not everyone has special combat training like you. What do you think I could do with these things, huh?” I extend my hands and Colt’s eyes drop to them.
Suddenly I’m painfully aware of the pink flowers on my nails. I bet he hates them. He probably thinks they’re childish, but why should I care about his opinions?
I refuse to be embarrassed about what I like. Mike got away with shaming me for everything that brings me joy, but I won’t make myself small anymore.
I brace for a mean comment, but Colt reaches out. His calloused fingers close slowly around my right hand, gently turning it palm up.
