However, I did not do this.
So, I decided to start.
ASAP.
What did not occur to me during the drive from my oldish apartment complex in Platt Park—which was a two-story rectangle with entries to the units on exposed walkways on the inside of the structure, these surrounded a pool that someone had jazzed up and included a communal grilling-and-hanging-out area and a lot of tall, shady trees—was that I didn’t have to follow him.
It was hours after receiving those texts.
I didn’t know how long it would take Mag to set up hacking my phone, but with less time to do it, maybe I could have gotten away with getting away from him.
Something I could easily do in my car by simply driving away from him.
Instead, I followed him to his newish, sleek, modern, hip condo complex in one of the trendiest neighborhoods in Denver.
And there I stood by his massive kitchen island, staring at his living room that was filled with sleek, modern, hip furniture.
He was in his bedroom, out of which, right then, he emerged.
I ignored the gun in a shoulder holster that was now marring his awesome light-blue button-up, as well as what looked like two extra gun clips hooked to his belt.
Instead, I watched him throw a jacket on the island out of which he pulled a tangle of wire.
“You have exceptional taste in home décor,” I shared.
His head came up from his detangling duties and he grinned at me.
Evie, stop making the man smile, I chastised myself as my breasts swelled in response to that smile. Making him smile is not borderline impolite. It’s FLIRTING.
“It’s all Mo’s,” he informed me. “My shit, after the breakup, I put in storage. When Mo moved in with Mac, he didn’t need this stuff anymore, so I sold my crap, because it was crap, bought his, and before you get any ideas, Mo didn’t pick it either. He engineered a personal shopper, some lady who worked at some furniture store, and she did it.”
“I cannot imagine how it would reflect poorly on Mo that he’s able to select a couch,” I noted.
He looked down to his wires, stating, “Yeah, well, you don’t have a dick.”
“I know many men who come with that equipment who have opinions on couches,” I retorted.
His head came up and he grinned at me again.
Stupid Evie!
I decided it was time to get into his shoulder holster and ammo clips.
“Just to say,” I dipped my head to his chest, “we’re not facing a zombie apocalypse.”
Okay.
What was with me?
It seemed I just couldn’t help myself.
Because he started chuckling, I started reacting to his chuckles in a variety of warm ways in a variety of places in my body, all precisely as I’d intended.
He began to round the island to come to me.
“In my life, I’ve learned you can’t be too safe,” he said dauntingly, then held up the wire that looked, at one end, to have a small microphone, and at the other, a small transmitter.
Uh-oh.
“Danny,” I stated warningly.
I said no more because I didn’t intend to say anything else. I thought my warning tone should suffice.
But more, he appeared like he was going to say something before his head ticked, his gaze on me warmed, his mouth grew soft, and he stared at me for a full five seconds like he was a doting boyfriend and I was his doted-upon girlfriend.
This caused havoc on my insides, and I was grateful to him for finally speaking because it meant I had something else to focus on.
“I’m gonna wire you, Evie, so I can not only see what’s goin’ down but hear it.”
“I don’t think—”
He interrupted me.
“Babe, let me look after you.”
It was then what was happening, what he was intent on doing, and clearly intent on doing thoroughly, fully dawned on me.
And it felt like something had come up from his cement floors and clamped on my feet, rooting me to the spot as I stared up at him.
No one…
Not ever…
In my life…
Had looked after me.
No one.
“Now, I’m not bein’ fresh,” he said, “but I need to reach up your shirt and position this.” He gestured with the microphone. “I get it in place, you hold it there, we’ll tape it and stow the transmitter. You got your shirt untucked at the back, your blazer on, he’ll never see. Yeah?”
I nodded slowly.
“Untuck the front of your tee, Evie,” he ordered.
I did as told.
And, man.
You had to hand it to him.
He ducked his hand under my shirt fast. He then slid the microphone under the clasp at the front of my bra fast as well. And he did all of this staring right into my eyes, his gaze attentive, his manner efficient.
“Hold that, babe,” he murmured.
I lifted a hand and held the microphone in position over my T-shirt.
He pulled his hand out, reached for some tape, ripped off a small piece and then ducked back in.