“What kind of jobs do you take, Owen?”
His thumbs stop moving, but his eyes don’t lift.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
He finally looks at me. The room feels smaller when he does. More dangerous.
“Who’s asking?”
My pulse skips. I make a show of shrugging. “The girl you’re fucking.” I try to play it off as teasing, flirting even, but the words hang between us, raw and biting and a little desperate.
His jaw tightens. “That’s not what this is.”
“No?” I ask, my voice too light. “Because it feels like that sometimes.”
He stands and walks over slow, kneeling in front of me, hands on either side of the chair. I can smell cedar and smoke and something darker underneath.
“You want answers?”
I nod, my heart hammering.
“I do work that pays well and keeps people safe. I take contracts. I disappear when I’m told. I show up when it matters. That’s all you need to know.”
So… illegal shit.
It’s not enough. What is he hiding from me?
But it’s the only version he’s willing to give me.
The silence stretches. Water drips from the gutter outside. Somewhere, snow sloughs off the roof with a heavy thud.
I don’t press again, but the weight of it lingers between us.
He starts to move away. I stop him with a toe hooked behind his knee. He looks back with a warning in his stare.
I tilt my head and smile like it doesn’t feel as if I’m flailing and trying to hold onto what I want so desperately.
“You always thisdramaticwhen someone asks what you do for a living?”
He huffs once. Not a laugh, but close.
I stretch and yawn… long, lazy, teasing.
“Well,” I say, dragging the word out, “I guess I don’t care what you do as long as you come back in one piece. And don’t get blood on the sheets.”
His gaze sharpens.
“You think this is a feckin’ joke?”
“Little bit. You always took everything so damnseriously.” I shrug, knowing I’m pushing every one of his damn buttons. “Maybe lighten up afeckin’ bit, eh?”
His huge, rough, sexy-as-sin hands anchor on his hips. “You think you’re cute?”
“Sometimes.”
“You think mouthing off is gonna feckin’ save you?”