Fatal Deception (Bent County Protectors), page 12
“Are you trying to make me cry?” she demanded, because she’d just gotten a handle on it, and now he was making it worse.
“No, and I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.”
She managed a watery laugh at that, blinked back the tears. “Yeah, I’d prefer that too.”
“Come on,” he muttered. He moved to her side, wrapped an arm around her so she’d lean on him more than put weight on her ankle. They walked like that in silence to the stairs. She tried to reach for the railing, but Copeland stopped her.
“You’ve got to give that ankle a break.”
“You’re not going to carry me again.”
“You keep being so very wrong.” And then, just like last time, he picked her up before she even had a chance to talk him out of it. Just an arm under her shoulders, another under her knees, and easy as you please, just up the stairs. Like she didn’t weigh a thing when she most decidedly did.
He didn’t stop there. He walked her all the way to her room. Then he very carefully set her on her feet and crossed over to flip on the lights. He surveyed it with those cool, detached cop eyes.
“Decent-sized bed,” he commented. “Going to share it or am I sleeping on the floor?”
She gaped at him. Her mouth hanging open like a fish. “What?”
“Twenty. Four. Seven. I’m sleeping in this room with you.” He patted his side. “Armed.”
“I have a gun up here.”
“Great. Two’s better than one.”
“Copeland.” She knew there should be a reasonable spate of refusals to bring up, to get through to him, but all her brain seemed to come up with was: what?
“You’re going to have to save us both time and energy and stop trying to argue. This is the deal struck.”
His deal. His decision. As if her life was his to determine, when she’d been determining everything for her entire adult life, if not more.
It was his job, sure, and at the end of the day, as ridiculous as he was being, she knew she needed help. She knew whatever was going on was beyond what she knew how to handle or stop.
But she hardly thought that extended to sharing a room, to losing all her privacy and agency. She could tell him all that, but it wouldn’t change anything. If there was anything the past few days had taught her, it was that there was no getting through to him, no winning this. He’d find a way. He had every single time, no matter her objections.
It infuriated her. She usually got around everyone with a sweet smile and doing what she wanted anyway. She usually convinced everyone she was so fine, so with it, so…good that she didn’t need overbearing determinations.
Why was he different?
She went into the closet, pulled out the spare pillow, some clean sheets, perhaps a little unreasonably angry at him for being that different. She tossed everything on the ground, spurred on by fury and, if she was being honest with herself, maybe a little panic that someone had finally gotten through. “There. Enjoy.”
She went back to the closet, grabbed some pajamas. Then tried to stride out the bedroom door, but he was right there. Right behind her the short walk across the hall.
She turned to scowl at him in front of the bathroom door. She gestured at it. “Just the bathroom, warden. I need a shower.”
“I said you’re not out of my sight. I’ll amend that to give you private bathroom privileges, but that’s it.”
Bathroom privileges? How was he possibly serious? She fisted her hands on her hips. “Oh, well since I’m your prisoner did you want to handcuff me while you’re at it? Maybe shower together so I’m never out of sight?”
He studied her, something about the way his eyes changed reminding her of when he’d kissed her. Her cheeks reddened. Because that was not what she’d meant, but the image…
Jeez, she needed to get a grip. So she turned on a heel and jerked the bathroom door open. She closed it behind her, not with a slam, but with a firm snap.
She flicked back the shower curtain, wrenched the water on hot, then paused because…it was so weird that he was right outside the door, and she was going to take off all her clothes.
And if she called it weird, she wouldn’t have to acknowledge that there was something else fluttering through her as she got undressed and stepped into the hot spray. Like the idea of sharing a shower. Or that kiss they’d shared. Or mixing it all up into one very inappropriate fantasy.
Yes, it is totally normal to fantasize about sex with a bossy, overbearing detective who is only here because your life is falling apart.
She wanted to groan, maybe beat her head against the wall a few times. Instead she washed up, got out of the shower, dried off and dressed, and then decided she’d handle the rest of the night by not speaking, not thinking, not worrying.
He could sleep on the floor. She’d sleep on her bed. And that was that.
Determined, recalibrated, she gathered up her dirty clothes and opened the door to move out into the hallway.
Copeland was leaning against the wall, looking at his phone. He lifted his gaze when she came out. His eyes moved over her. Not exactly a detached-cop look. No, there was the flicker of something in their dark depths.
She could convince herself the kiss was a mistake for a lot of reasons, but it was hard to remember those reasons when she was faced with the fact that whatever she felt about him, whatever reactions she had to him, she wasn’t alone. He wasn’t immune to her.
“I’m going to run through myself,” he said. “You can head into your bedroom, but you stay there. We’re leaving both doors open.”
She wanted to have a snarky retort, but she just limped into her room, dropped the dirty clothes in her hamper, turned off the light. She crawled into bed. Her body was fully and wholly exhausted. Her ankle throbbed, so she took the bottle of ibuprofen out of her nightstand and took two with the water from the water bottle she kept next to her bed.
Then she flopped back on her pillow knowing that no matter how exhausted she was, everything plaguing her would keep her awake. And not just because Copeland was currently in her shower. Naked, no doubt. With the door open. She could hear it running. She could hear the occasional creak of his weight shifting the old house.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to fight off that potential image. Didn’t she have bigger problems than an unfortunate and untimely attraction to a man who…
That was the trouble. She wanted him to be like he seemed. Cold and abrupt and cocky. And he was all those things when he wanted to be, but it was clearly an armor put on after a really awful time in his life.
He was here because he wanted to help. No doubt that was why he was in law enforcement. But she also knew, somewhere along the line, whether either of them admitted it to themselves, it had become at least a little more. And she didn’t just mean the kissing.
He returned, but didn’t flip on the light. She heard him move, the sheets rustle as he settled himself into his makeshift bed.
On the cold, hard floor. After everything he’d done to help her. She didn’t want to feel guilty. It made her really mad that she felt guilty, because he didn’t have to sleep on her floor, he didn’t have to take on this responsibility.
She knew that was rich coming from her.
“I can’t sleep with you lying on the floor,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling in irritation.
“So trade with me.”
“I’m not that big of a martyr,” she replied, though she was beginning to wonder.
“Sure about that?”
Frustrated with him as much as herself, she sat up, leaned over the end of the bed to peer down at him. It was shadowy dark, but she could make out the lump of him lying on the hard, cold floor. She’d never be able to sleep knowing it.
“This isn’t an invitation.”
She couldn’t see his eyes in the dark, but somehow she could feel his gaze all the same. “What isn’t?”
“It’s a big enough bed to share. If you can stay on your side.”
Maybe she expected him to put up a little bit of a fight, but he wasn’t a martyr. He immediately moved. He tossed the pillow onto the side of the bed she wasn’t on, then she felt the weight of the mattress dip.
Why had she thought this would make it easier to sleep? Sure, guilt wasn’t eating at her now, but everything else was. How close he was. How odd it was to feel the weight of someone else in her bed. The smell of her shampoo that he must have used mixed with whatever made Copeland… Copeland.
How had she gotten here, and how was she ever going to explain it all to her family when they returned?
Natalie thought she was sleeping with Copeland, and now she was in the most literal way possible. Rosalie would be furious she’d kept so much to herself. Franny would be hurt, because she could visit her parents anytime, so Audra really should have told her, let her come home.
And now she probably had to tell them both before she wanted to, just so they didn’t hear some small-town-gossip version of everything.
Just the thought had the tears returning. She didn’t know how to make it okay. How to make Rosalie not worry. How to keep Rosalie from ending her honeymoon early, or Franny rushing home. They wouldn’t want her to handle it alone and they should.
The guilt of it was too much. This was her ranch, her problem. She wiped one of her now wet cheeks against the pillowcase. She breathed carefully through her mouth as the tears streamed down her face. She wouldn’t let him know she was crying, this man who was stubbornly and platonically sharing her bed. She wouldn’t…
“This isn’t an invitation either,” he muttered, drawing her close, then rolling her over so that she was tucked into his warm, hard chest. He ran a palm down her hair, brushed tears off her cheeks, and held her while she cried.
And because he did, she let it out. Sobbed out the whole awful ordeal. Just like what she’d said to him about telling her the whole story about his ex-wife. It was releasing toxins or something. She hated it, but at least it served a purpose.
She didn’t like to cry on Rosalie’s shoulder, or Franny’s, or Vi’s. Or Natalie’s or anyone’s. It made her feel weak and like she’d failed.
But this wasn’t so bad.
* * *
COPELAND WOKE UP to sunlight streaming on his face, and a warm body moving next to his. For a moment, he instinctually held on. It was nice. It was…
His eyes popped open. He would have shoved into a sitting position, but he was met by blue eyes fixed on his face.
God, she was pretty. He didn’t know how she could give off the aura of slim, delicate spring flowers knowing how strong, sturdy and determined she was. He knew she could handle anything and had, but he wanted to erect full fortresses to keep her safe.
He went from half-asleep to alert in a second, realizing he had one arm under her shoulder, and she was resting her hand at his inner elbow. Like maybe they’d fallen asleep, wrapped up together, after she’d cried herself empty.
He should get up. Leave this warm cocoon of…something. He’d comforted her while she cried, and that was it. Friendly. Helpful. He was hardly going to use an emotional breakdown as a kind of catalyst for…whatever this moment seemed to demand.
But she didn’t get up. She didn’t scoot away. They were so close their noses were almost touching. And neither jumped up to move. Neither looked away.
He knew he should do something to stop this, but she was just so soft and warm. So damn beautiful it hurt. Something was beating through him. Heavy, important, mixing with desire and the hazy notion that this wasn’t at all wrong.
It was, instead, exactly right.
She moved closer, close enough her body brushed his. Her mouth was just a whisper away. Her blue gaze never left his face.
He could close that little distance between them. He could kiss her, touch her. He could calm this thudding, needy conflict inside of him.
He could extricate himself. Slip out of bed. Pretend this wasn’t happening.
But he waited, watching her.
Until she pressed her mouth to his. Sweetly and gently. Her hand coming up to trace his jaw, then raking through his hair. She was a descent into soft, honeyed perfection.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said against his mouth. “This is an invitation.”
“Good, because I’m taking it.” He rolled her under him, gratified when she made a little sigh of pleasure beneath him. When she met every kiss, every touch, every whisper with one of her own. And it released all that had tied so tight, because he’d wanted this for days now. Just this. Just her.
Sex had been a game since his divorce. Fun. Spontaneous. And very, very superficial. Something to do, something to prove to himself that even if he kind of sucked in the whole being-a-human department, he still was one.
There was nothing superficial about the way her skin felt, the way she moved under him, the way she kissed him. That was all a heavy, complicated braid of emotion, responsibility, want and something deeper than he had the words for.
It wasn’t just sex, certainly wasn’t a game. And he could try to convince himself of either of those things, but she already had too much weight in his heart for him to manage.
Being tangled up in her was a privilege and a hope. A tangled, changing dance. As pleasure throbbed, flowed and released in shuddering tandem that took both of them under in the early morning light.
He tucked her close and closed his eyes, and for a moment just breathed. There was so much to do, to handle. This was a distraction that wasn’t right when danger lurked.
But, damn, it felt right.
“I guess you’ve got chores you’re late for now,” he said when he trusted his voice not to sound heavy with all the emotions waging war inside of him.
She made a contented noise, low in her throat. “I might have finally found something worth being late to chores for.”
He should be distancing himself, but instead he pulled her in tighter, settled his face between her jaw and shoulder. Inhaled the faint, flowery scent of her skin that came from the soap she used in the shower last night, and it settled through him. Calm. Warm. Right. “I can make you even later.”
“No, you can’t and that’s not a challenge.”
He made a considering sound, pressed his mouth to the underside of her jaw. She shoved at him, but with a laugh and with a lightness in her whole body he hadn’t seen this whole time.
It was a heady feeling to be the one that got to take some of the weight off Audra Young’s shoulders. Dangerously heady, and maybe he would have given himself a stern talking-to about that, but he heard the chime of a doorbell ring through the house, and they both stilled.
“Expecting someone?” he asked casually, trying to remind himself that people who shot out windows and set fires didn’t ring the bell, so he wouldn’t go tearing downstairs, gun in hand.
“No.” She hopped out of bed, and he got one tantalizing glimpse of everything before she tugged on a hideous, fluffy robe. “It’s probably Natalie.” She sighed, weight seeming to pile back on her shoulders. “She probably heard about the fire. I’ll be right back.”
“Audra, wait—”
But she was already out the door. He cursed under his breath as he got out of the bed. It probably was Natalie, but she didn’t know that for sure, and with everything that was going on, she had to be more careful.
He couldn’t find his shirt, but he wasn’t about to let her go downstairs on her own, even if was just Natalie. Twenty-four seven meant twenty-four seven whether she liked it or not, and sex certainly didn’t change that. He pulled on his pants as he walked, then jogged down the stairs.
She had the door open, and he could hear her even though he couldn’t see who was on the other side yet.
“Oh. Hello. Are you looking for Copeland?”
“Yes.” Laurel’s voice. “And you. We’ve gotten a few small breaks in tracking the cremains. I was on my way out to Sunrise for a different case and thought I’d stop by and catch you two up.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, come on in.” Audra moved out of the way and Laurel stepped in. She glanced around the room in a quick, cop sweep. She spotted Copeland at the bottom of the stairs in nothing but his unbuttoned jeans. Her eyebrows immediately raised.
“I—I’ll make some coffee,” Audra offered, a little too brightly. “We’ll talk in the kitchen.” Her cheeks were bright red, but she moved with just the hint of a limp, toward the kitchen, in her bathrobe.
Laurel followed Audra, but her gaze stayed on Copeland. He couldn’t quite read it. Not contempt. Definitely not approval. Something more appraising.
“Nice tattoo,” Laurel said under her breath as she passed him.
Cursing, Copeland went upstairs to find his shirt.
Chapter Fourteen
Audra wasn’t sure how her life had spiraled so far out of control. Sleeping with Copeland was one thing. The kiss before the fire had sort of made more feel like an inevitability, and even now she couldn’t regret it.
She’d been in long-term relationships before and nothing had ever felt like that. It wasn’t just the physical part, though—wow. It wasn’t that she’d felt like she’d uncovered something, discovering the coin-size tattoo on the front of his shoulder, in the shape of a police badge. It was that it had been more than all of that.
More than her usual trying to make a relationship last, work, be the end. It wasn’t about relationships at all. It had just been about waking up to him holding on to her, knowing that he was…a good man. And she’d wanted some piece of that.
The weight of it had been important, somehow. And it was one thing to try to work through all that, but for his coworker to show up… To see it. That was something else entirely, even if Detective Delaney-Carson was being very nice and pretending like she didn’t know what was going on.
Audra stood at the coffee maker, discarding the remnants of last night’s decaf and getting it set up to brew. Copeland reappeared with his shirt on before she finished.
