Page 20 of The Foreman
"We going somewhere?" she asked, arms crossed.
"Not we, me. I need to check the relay manually. Stay inside."
That wasn't a request.
Curiosity prickled under her skin, but she nodded and lingered near the window. The faint rattle of tools carried through the glass as she watched him crouch beside the weatherproof housing, swing the panel open, and bend over the tangle of fiber connections. His movements were steady and unhurried, the kind of precision that came only from years of doing this work under pressure. The smooth sweep of his hands was almost hypnotic, practiced and sure, each adjustment made with quiet authority.
The scanner flickered to life in soft green pulses, casting a faint glow across his face as he muttered under his breath, testing and recalibrating, fingers moving with quick efficiency. The rhythm of his work was oddly soothing, mechanical hum blending with the steady drum of her heartbeat as she watched. After a subtle adjustment deep inside the junction, he slid the scanner free, shut the housing with a muted click, and locked it into place. Straightening, he gave a short nod of satisfaction, shoulders easing as if a weight had been lifted. Whatever had glitched, he’d fixed it.
When his gaze lifted, he caught her watching. For a moment their eyes held through the glass, a silent current running between them. Then he tipped his chin toward the interior in a small motion. She stepped back from the window, but she didn’t move far, unwilling to lose sight of him, her pulse still stirred by equal parts curiosity and the steady confidence in every move he made.
When he returned, dust still clinging to his knees, he gave a curt nod. "Interference amplifier was misaligned. Could’ve been heat shift or intentional sabotage. Either way, it's stable now. But we need to keep our eyes open." He closed the casing, wiping grit from his palms. “This kind of breach isn’t Nexus-level work. They don’t have the expertise. Someone with more money and reach is bankrolling them.”
Macy felt her stomach tighten as that name resurfaced in her mind—Kells.
"Doesn't this place have a security system?"
Trace barked a laugh. "One that most secure facilities would envy, but you never rely solely on any electronic system. Trust but verify."
The adrenaline had faded, but the ache in Macy's limbs remained. Not pain exactly, but a taut awareness winding through her muscles like she’d been strung too tight for toolong. She stood in the center of the safe house, taking in the minimalist layout—concrete walls, reinforced windows, tactical supplies lining a metal rack, and that damn single bed.
Trace moved through the space like a man born for it. Controlled. Alert. Dangerous in a way that made her breath catch and her thoughts spiral into territory that had nothing to do with safety.
He re-secured the locks, rechecked the perimeter sensors, then turned to face her, face shadowed with tension. "Sit. You need rest."
"You need a better bedside manner," she shot back, but eased onto the couch anyway with the first-aid kit she’d found earlier. She applied a bandage to the cut she had first thought was merely a bruise. Her body welcomed the cushion, even if her pride bristled.
He crouched in front of her, his gaze scanning for injuries. "You took a fall back in the barn. Let me see."
"I’m fine, cowboy. Just a little bruised pride and a messed-up ponytail."
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. Macy narrowed her eyes, biting back the urge to roll them.Well, aren't you just a walking Hallmark card,she thought, crossing her arms with theatrical flair.Maybe I should’ve brought flashcards labeled joke and laugh here.
Instead, he reached for her leg, gently lifted the hem of her jeans, and inspected the skin beneath with the kind of focus that should’ve felt clinical. It didn’t.
Macy swallowed. "You always this hands-on, or am I just lucky?"
"You jumped in front of a bullet for me. That earns you a little attention."
She didn't think he'd meant for anything to slip, but the words came out raw, his voice low and edged with somethingrougher. It was an unguarded fracture in his carefully built control.
Trace’s attention lingered on her work. His jaw tightened as he studied it, the hard line flexing in a way that made her pulse trip. Something flickered in his eyes, a flash of heat that unsettled her. The intensity of it made her wonder if the tension coiled through him was from pain or something far more dangerous. Whatever it was, she could see how thin his restraint had become, a thread stretched tight enough to snap. His gaze drifted to her lips, still slightly parted from whatever retort she’d been holding back.
She watched as his chest rose, then held steady like he was bracing himself for impact. There was a deliberate pause, the kind that came before a plunge into deep water, or a decision that couldn’t be undone. His focus shifted entirely to her, to the proximity of her body and the pull between them that made the rest of the world disappear.
She met his stare, and something sparked. Not in him. In her. Warmth coiled low in her belly, her breath hitching as awareness swept through her. The man before her wasn’t only danger contained in muscle and control; he was temptation made flesh.
She hated how much she liked it. Hated that even now, post-firefight, part of her still wanted to straddle him right there on the cold concrete floor and ride the storm out.
Instead, she leaned back and studied him. "Your turn. You’re favoring your left side."
Trace hesitated.
She arched a brow. "You planning to be stubborn or smart?"
"It’s an old injury."
"And now it’s a re-aggravated one. Take your shirt off."
