Page 33 of Concealed

He gives me an update on the task force while we’re scanning the menu, and it sounds intense, which explains why he’s been extra absent.

It’s only when he hooks a thumb on my chin and turns my face toward him that I realize I keep turning around and scanning the patrons behind me.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and his expression is dead serious. “Nothing is going to happen to you when I’m with you. Promise.”

I inflate my lungs and then let out a long, slow exhale to try and release the stress. It’s easy to be brave at home, but out in public where anything could happen and anyone could show up, my courage fades.

But I’m here with a cop who probably has a gun.

I’m fine.

This is fine.

Everything isfine.

“I’m sorry. I’m just… I don’t get out much.” And I’m really good at making myself sound super appealing. “I sent out resumes to all the local and surrounding school boards today,” I tell him. “Hopefully, someone calls me for an interview soon.”

“That’s awesome,” Wyatt says. “Hey, listen. I didn’t say it before, but I want to say it now.” He waits until I pull my reluctant gaze to his. “You were brave as fuck for leaving him. Don’t ever forget it, okay? And whatever happened before doesn’t erase the future that you’re making for yourself now. Without him.”

Tears burn my eyes, and I impulsively set my hand on his forearm, trying to ignore how sexy his hard, sinewy muscles are. He wants to be friends and doesn’t have time for anything else, plus I’m a hot mess express who doesn’t date cops.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “It doesn’t feel like it most times.”

“If you ever forget, just give me a call, and I’ll remind you. Okay?”

I laugh and blink the tears away. “Okay.”

The server checks in with us, but I’m still staring at the menu, incredibly lost. Matt and I rarely went out anywhere, and when we did, he controlled all the details.

After everything it took to get me right here, right now, I have terrible decision fatigue, and I don’t care what I eat so long as it’s food.

“Want me to pick?” Wyatt asks softly.

It’s shocking how perceptive the guy is, but maybe it comes with the trade. Either that or he’s just an empathetic human being and more people who wear badges need that trait.

I set the menu down and give him a genuine smile. “Hell yes.”

I’m not losing control because I’m giving it up willingly, and it’s dinner, not the direction of my life.

He chuckles, and the sound makes me smile. “With or without wine?”

“Let’s live on the wild side and have a glass. A small one, in my case.”

At the very least, it will loosen the anxiety in my chest, but I’ll stick with one glass so I don’t get loopy.

Wyatt is hyperaware of my issues – he knows why I’m staying with him, after all – and incredibly sensitive about how he acts around me.

The long pauses and thoughtful expressions on his face suggest that he’s monitoring himself and thinking about everything he says before he says it. He keeps the conversational topics solely focused on work when all I can think about are his lips.

It’s not that I don’t find the task force he joined interesting. I mean, who would think a quiet, peaceful place like Sunnyville would even have a human trafficking ring?

And when he tells me why he left LA, I’m more impressed with him than ever because even though he broke the rules, sometimes the rules don’t make sense.

Saving a life matters more than the playbook.

But I also just want him to keep treating me like a woman who isn’t made of glass, like he did at the pool.

When we’re done eating, I try to pay my half even though I don’t have the money to spare, and he leans in close, making a golf ball-sized lump appear in my throat.

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