FIFTEEN
Something had changed, Lyrica thought two days later as she awoke. Lying in Graham’s bed, awaking alone, was beginning to bother her. No matter how long she lay there, he didn’t check to see if she was awake. When she went to bed at night, he did join her. But the only proof she had that he slept in the bed was the indent in the pillow each morning and the mussed blankets.
His day was filled with meetings with Elijah, calls to contacts, and hours spent on his laptop searching down “leads.” She was starting to think the leads were no more than an excuse to ensure he didn’t have time to touch her.
If it weren’t for the way he watched her, she’d believe she’d imagined the hours she’d spent with him buried inside her. Because he sure as hell wasn’t doing anything to touch her now.
Whatever the shadow she’d sometimes glimpsed in his gaze over the past year was, it seemed to have grown in the past two days. His expression was remote, his mood dark, and only his eyes betrayed the lust that still lingered between them.
Confused and uncertain, she forced herself from the bed and into the shower, the change in Graham still plaguing her even as she dressed for another day behind closed curtains, hiding from whatever threat existed outside.
She was getting tired of hiding.
She’d known she would. If she had known what was going on to begin with, she would have demanded her brother and cousins come up with a plan that would draw the threat out into the open rather than piecing everything together the way they were now.
Had she been given a chance to consider it the other night, she might have demanded it then. One thing was for certain, she couldn’t continue like this. She was already going stir-crazy.
Her life wasn’t one of idle days and lazy nights. She worked three jobs in any given week: Dawg’s lumber store, the marina, and the restaurant Natches and his sister ran in Somerset, simply named Mackay’s.
She worked wherever she was needed most at the time or wherever her interest drew her on any given day. She didn’t just sit around, unless it was in front of her laptop writing. And writing wasn’t a vocation for her. It was an outlet for the hopes, dreams, and pains that she often found herself too sensitive to.
Freshly showered, her long black hair blow-dried to ribbon straightness and falling to the middle of her shoulders, Lyrica hurriedly dressed.
A white lace bra and matching panties, a fluttery chiffon skirt in soft pastel waves of color, and a white cotton camisole tank that fit over her breasts with snug appreciation for her curves before skimming over her stomach and disappearing into the thin band of the skirt. Pushing her feet into a pair of tan brown leather sandals, she left Graham’s bedroom and headed to the kitchen.
They had twenty-four more hours, she decided, to at least come up with a reasonable lead. After that, they were going to have to revise their plans just a little bit, because living like this . . . there was no way she could continue to do it for long.
Her heart wouldn’t survive it.
Stepping into the kitchen, she was surprised to see Graham sitting at the small breakfast table with his laptop, a steaming coffee sitting at his elbow.
His head lifted as she stepped into the kitchen, his golden brown eyes narrowing on her, the flecks of gold firing instantly as she paused at the doorway.
“You’re not in the office,” she observed as she moved to the coffeepot.
“Don’t appear to be, do I?” His tone was carefully modulated. Not a hint of mockery or sarcasm was to be found in his voice or his expression.
But she still felt it.
Tensing, she poured the coffee before cradling the cup in her hands and turning back to him.
“Do you have a problem with me being here all of a sudden?” she asked curiously, hidi
ng the flash of pain that struck her at the thought.
“Did I say I had a problem with you being here?” A dark blond brow arched questioningly, and still there was no sign of the dark anger she could feel just beneath the surface.
“You wouldn’t say, whether you had one or not,” she felt the need to point out. “Other than sleeping with me, you’d take care of me the same way you’d expect my family to take care of Kye. I know you that well at least.”
Something flickered in his gaze then. An acknowledgment of her point, perhaps?
Lifting the cup to her lips to ensure she gave away as little of the pain the thought caused her as possible, Lyrica sipped at the coffee slowly.
“If I had a problem with you being here, then trust me, you wouldn’t be here,” he promised, his expression tightening as he turned his attention back to the laptop.
“You have me for twenty-four more hours,” she stated, her resolve hardening. “Then I’m calling Dawg.”
With that, she set the coffee cup on the counter and turned and walked from the room.