Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“I think you need to recheck that autopsy report. I have a feeling something is off with it,” she comments, clearly remembering the details of that episode like the back of her hand. Truth be told, it’s a typo in the original autopsy report that leads Tony DiNozzo to be able to track down the actual killer.
“Okay. I’ll be sure to do that.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “Keep your chin up, Tony. You got this.”
“Thanks, Sherry.”
“And get some sleep,” she adds. “You’re going to need it when you find out the Port-to-Port Killer has access to all of our internal records and computer system.”
“Will do, Sherry.”
She heads back to her bedroom, and I just sit there, wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to dig myself out of the deep trench I’ve managed to get into.
Because let’s face it, it’s not just a trench. It’s a damn canyon, and I’m already too far down to climb out.
My mind should be busy with work shit. Busy with the meeting Shane and I are supposed to have with Captain Leonard first thing Monday morning. I should be focused on making sure we can keep the CMA wiretap until the warrant is up.
I should be focused on that case and the other three cases I’m elbow deep in.
But there’s only one thing—one person—on my mind, and she’s currently mere walls away from me.
And although I wish I could just brush off my obvious feelings for Hannah, I don’t think I can.
I don’t think I can at all.
27
Hannah
1:35 a.m.
I flip over onto my side and then my back and then my other side, a sigh escaping my lungs as I do my tenth circuit of trying to get comfortable in my bed.
But the comforter feels weird on my skin, and my mind is fixated on the reality that Dominic is in my living room. On my couch. So close, yet somehow so far away.
My mother is sound asleep; I know this because of the extra camera I strategically placed inside the house tonight before I helped her to bed. Now I have a visual of her bedroom door and part of the living room and kitchen, and I get notified on my phone whenever she leaves her room in the middle of the night.
She only got up once this evening, a little over an hour and a half ago, and she traipsed through the kitchen and living room in her bra and underwear.
She spotted Dom on the couch, and the poor guy did everything he could to avert his eyes, to give her the privacy he always tries to give her, while still maintaining the NCIS-themed conversation she initiated with him. I can’t stop thinking about the way he handled it—with respect, patience, and kindness. Qualities I already know Dom has in spades.
I expected her to get up again, but a part of me wonders if she feels safe in her bedroom because she truly believes Tony DiNozzo is keeping watch from her living room.
And while he’s making her feel safe to sleep, he’s making it impossible for you to sleep . . .
I huff out a breath and shove the comforter off my body. I only have myself to blame for my current situation. I’m the one who invited him, damn well knowing how I feel about him. Damn well knowing that, whenever he’s in my vicinity, he makes me and my body feel things.
Things I’ve never let myself feel before. The very part of me that’s undeniably a woman—one with wants, needs, and sexual desires—is one I’ve long ignored.
I’ve spent what feels like my whole life focused on my mom. Determined to take care of her. Focused on doing everything I can to give her the quality of life I think she deserves. And I’ve sacrificed a lot because of it. A sadness whispers to me in the quiet moments like this one, reminding me of everything I’ve given up.
At twenty-five, I’ve had only two relationships, and zero dates. My first boyfriend was named Devon. I was seventeen and I loved him deeply, but after we graduated high school, he went off to college in California, moved on to bigger and better things. I stayed in Nashville because I refused to leave my mom.
And with my second boyfriend—the last man whose touch I felt—I was nineteen. He was a guy named Will, whom I’d met in one of my classes at MTSU. We had been dating for a couple of months when he took me to my first real college party. He was handsome and fit—he played lacrosse—and we ended up back at his dorm room, kissing and touching, and I honestly thought it was going to be the night I lost my virginity. Hell, I wanted it to be the night I lost my virginity.