Page 27 of Lock ’N’ Load

Releasing her wrist, he leaned back in his chair, his forehead creasing. “I came here tonight for another reason. I want to apologize again for kissing you. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.”

Seriously? Could he have bruised her ego and pooped on her day any more than he had already? This was the second time he’d apologized for giving her what was unequivocally the most intensely passionate kiss she’d ever experienced. Apparently, though, she’d been the only one enjoying it.

“Say something,” he prodded.

Like what? Like, I’m disappointed?

“Don’t worry about it.” She grabbed the bottle of Dalwhinnie, uncorking it with a resounding pop, then pouring two fingers. “I g-get it.”

“Get what?” He growled.

She paused with the glass a half inch from her lips. “Guys like you don’t kiss women like me.”

His expression blanked. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning—” Hot, gorgeous men like you don’t kiss plain women like me, let alone one who can’t even speak a complete sentence without stammering like a babbling idiot. “N-nothing. It means nothing. So, if that was the second thing you came here to say, you can leave now. For that matter, why did you really come here? You could have just called or t-texted.”

He pursed his full lips and began strumming his fingers on the table, as if he was deep in thought. “I needed to see for myself how you were. To ask you in person.”

“Why?” A tiny sliver of hope made her think he might actually care. Get real, Trista.

“I was worried about you. Is that so hard to believe?”

“I’m n-not your responsibility.”

“Yes, you are.” Leaning forward, he rested his hand on her forearm and again his touch affected her like no other man’s. Her body felt like a computer that had just gotten a high-speed upgrade and was now totally aware of everything.

It was impossible not to glance down at his strong, tanned hand. Or to note how his long, scarred fingers contrasted with the paleness of her skin. Not for the first time, she wondered what had made those scars.

“Every employee in the CIA is my responsibility,” he continued.

“Do you personally visit everyone you feel”—she hooked the fingers of her free hand into quotation marks—“responsible for?”

“No, I just—” A look of what she could only describe as bewilderment came over his features. “Hell, I don’t know why I came here.” When he removed his hand from hers and sat back, her heart sank with disappointment. She must have been off her rocker to think he truly cared about her.

Men like him don’t go out with women like me.

With that essential tenet properly repositioned in her common sense, she took a deep breath and rose. “Thank you for coming, Sgt. Connors. Rest assured, you have done due diligence and fulfilled your obligation to verify I am indeed still living and breathing. I’ll see you out.”

Turning, she went to the front door and opened it, but when she looked back, he hadn’t budged from his position at the table. Rather, he’d crossed his arms and was staring at her, doing that scowling thing again.

With their gazes locked for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only seconds, confusion clouded her thoughts. What in the world is going on here? Why won’t he leave?

Finally, he pushed up from the table and came to stand by her at the open doorway. His perpetual scowl softened. “I’m worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t be. You saved me, and I’ll always be grateful. But as Detective Sorensen said, it was a random attack.”

The deep sound Matt made in the back of his throat led her to believe he disagreed with Detective Sorensen’s assessment.

“I went back to the woods behind the Moose,” he said. “Sheba found a piece of bloody cloth. The police lab is running it through CODIS. If they get a hit, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you,” she said, trying not to breathe too deeply lest she inhale his appealing scent.

“Call me anytime, day or night.”

“I w-won’t.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut. After bestowing her with one last scowl, he turned and headed down her front steps.