Page 41 of Black Sheep
“Lorenzo. The prick who was following us earlier. He showed up at the club and wanted to meet with me.”
“But he knows you’re not at the club.”
Cannon shakes his head and looks sideways. “I never said he was a mental giant. He probably thought he was being tricky. Asking if I was at the club, so I wouldn’t think he was following us. Seriously sloppy work.”
I lower the empty glass to the counter. “Isn’t it useful, though? Now he knows for sure you’re not leaving tonight? Doesn’t that mean we’re in the clear?”
“You in a hurry to leave?” Cannon’s gaze cuts to my face as he asks the question, and a flush creeps up my chest and spreads over my shoulders.
“Is there a chance they’re going to be watching your place, waiting for me to leave?”
One leisurely step at a time, Cannon crosses the apartment to come toward me. “If I say no, how fast will you be out the door?” He stops on the opposite side of the kitchen bar and waits for my answer while my brain goes haywire.
It’s now or never. Stay or go. Fight or flight.
The logical part of me says my investigation would be better served by my staying, but I’m lying to myself if I claim that’s the only reason swaying my decision.
It’s not.
I want to stay for purely selfish reasons. I want to stay because I want to spend more time with this man who makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years ... if ever.
But I can’t say what I’m thinking. I don’t know how.
So instead, I press my lips together and meet his eyes. “I’d hate to do anything that doesn’t fit the story you’ve set in motion.”
25
Cannon
Iknow when a woman wants me, and it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted one this badly. Drew is afraid to come out and ask for what she wants. Something about that softens the tension that snapped into place in my spine as soon as Grice told me who’d showed up at the club asking for me.
As a matter of fact, it all drains away as I recall how fucking sweet she was pressed against me. I want more of her, and I want her now. But from the way she’s clutching the empty glass, I can tell Drew’s skittish. That can be fixed.
“You want a drink?”
She glances down at the one she’s holding.
“Not water. Wine. Scotch. Whiskey. Vodka. Name your poison.”
She drank wine at dinner, but something about her tells me that’s not her only beverage of choice.
The corners of her lips curl up. “You have any bourbon?”
“Picked up a bottle of Four Roses the other day.”
The beginnings of a smile bloom into a full one. “That’s my favorite, actually.”
“Then Four Roses it is.”
I back away from the kitchen to the antique industrial metal cabinet I saw at a flea market that used to grace the office of some factory back in the day. It had a padlock still on it, and I used a lock pick to open it rather than cut it off, because of some sentimental reason I still can’t put into words. I use the lock as a paperweight on my desk in my office now, despite the fact it gets rust on everything beneath it.
The cage-looking door swings open on well-oiled hinges when I pull on the metal handle. My stuff might not be the newest or the nicest, but I take care of what’s mine.
“One finger or two?” I ask, turning to watch her blush rise further. I’m not disappointed as it spreads until it disappears under the shoulders of her dress and beneath the thick layer of makeup.
Just as I start to think I want to wipe her face clean so I can see her blush stain her cheeks, she surprises me with an impish smirk.
“I’m a three-finger kind of girl. Especially in situations like this.”
