Love Me Better: No Such Unit Hopeless Romantics 1 Page 4

  He takes another bite of his cracker; waits a moment to see how it settles and then takes a sip of tea. “I sense a trap.”

  “Shut up and eat your crackers.” Without thought I reach out to pat his thigh dismissively only to freeze mid-motion as I realize how intimate the gesture is, which, of course leaves me with my hand resting on his thigh. Substantially more intimate than the thigh pat. Way to make things worse Seri.

  I stare down at my hand blankly for a second stymied by how comfortable—how natural it feels resting there before it occurs to me that, no matter how attracted I am to him, feeling up my fake boss in the office is not the best of ideas. Can’t just go around sexually harassing men.

  “I’m sorry—” I lift my hand intent on pulling it back only stop as he covers my hand with his.

  “Don’t.” He interrupts my apology. “It’s okay.” He pauses slightly, and I feel his thumb twitch on the back of my hand. “You don’t have to apologize for—” There’s a slight roughness to that that has me looking up.

  He meets my gaze directly. “I don’t mind. If you want to touch me, touch me.”

  I feel my breath catch in my throat. “You’ve got to stop doing that.” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “Saying things that make me want to kiss you.”

  He gives a startled laugh. “I seriously wouldn’t mind.”He traces a circle across the back of my hand with his thumb. “In fact, if you were to just grab me and kiss me—that would be great.”

  Seri

  I take an instinctive step forward; some half formed intent of crawling onto his lap and taking his mouth with mine driving me forward before the sound of someone walking along the corridor outside brings me up short. So, not the time Seri.

  Owen is staring at my lips with the slightest of smiles. “Well?” He dares me. All quiet confidence with a hint of mischief.

  I offer him a small smile in return, and reversing my grip under his, lift his hand in mine. Large, strong, tanned, nails neatly trimmed, spotted with freckles—the type you could make a game out of connecting with your tongue blur into focus as I lift it. He lets it rest easily in mine as he watches to see what I’m going to do next.

  I let him see what I’m feeling for a moment before I raise his hand to my mouth and press a kiss to his knuckles before releasing his hand. “Your timing leaves something to be desired.”

  He pulls my hand down with his until we are stood there with our clasped hands hanging between us.

  Well, I am stood there at least.

  He remains seated.

  He is so open with his desire that I can’t look away. I stand there staring; burning up in the warmth of him until I see his eyelids drop ever so slightly and I am reminded that he is exhausted. Squeezing slightly to take the sting out of it, I pull my hand out of his. “Drink your tea, eat your crackers, take the Paracetamol and have a nap. We have stuff to do Bishop-MacQuoide.”

  As I straighten and take a step back in preparation for returning to the console where all of my hair and make-up stuff is laid out I catch the way his face takes on a slightly frozen aspect and stop. His posture is all lazy ease as he smiles up at me but there’s an edge to it now, and I understand that he may have interpreted my response as a rejection. Nice work ruining the moment Seri. “Owen—Owen—” I repeat his name deliberately, as a reminder, while I cast around for words to repair the damage. “Just so you know, when I do kiss you for the first time, it’s going to be long and slow and thorough; the kind of kiss that lasts for an afternoon.”

  The tension in his face dissipates and he gives me a genuine smile; the kind tinged with warmth and sexy promises. “I look forward to it.”

  6

  Seri

  Owen sleeps through the meeting which earns me an intensely thoughtful look from Lachlan Baehr, and a ‘whatever’ shrug from Amory.

  We review the specifics of the event for the afternoon; a charity dog show to raise money for our service dog training program, and then go our separate ways to finish getting ready.

  Owen, who was apparently less asleep than we’d thought, gets up when the others leave, and makes his way back to his own office to change his clothes.

  I finish my preparations first and go down to get our car.

  Lachlan and Amory, who have additional duties at the event, have already left in their own vehicle.

  As I wait for him in one of the Courage After Fire Land Rovers, I deliberately turn the heat up. It’s over an hour’s drive to the afternoon’s charity event; and I am hoping that Owen will be able to get some more sleep in on the way. We need you up and functioning this afternoon Chief.

  He gives me a look as he climbs into the warm vehicle. “Are you determined to avoid talking to me or something?” He asks wryly as he organizes his seatbelt and lays his coat over his lap.

  “Not at all.” I am busy turning the vehicle around, so I don’t look at him. “The more sleep you get, the better you’ll be able to perform at the dog show.”

  “Perform?” I glance over at him as he hits the button to adjust his seat angle, catch his smile. “Why am I getting the feeling that you’ve signed me up for the obstacle course?”

  I allow my eyes to wander over his impressive physique. “While I am certain that you would excel at the obstacle course, it’s strictly dog and pony for you today.”

  He huffs softly with laughter, leans his head back against the head rest, and closes his eyes as he pulls his suit jacket up over his chest and shoulders. “Lucky me.”

  The car is silent for several minutes before he sighs. “Tell me something Seri.”

  I blink. Tell you something… “What?” I flick a glance over at him; find him still laying back, eyes closed, coat over his torso.

  “Something boring and long.” He answers inscrutably.

  I take that in, consider it for a moment. He’s wound too tight for sleep; most likely looking for something external to wind him down. I realize. “How about a podcast?” I suggest.

  “Yes.” He says, and there is something tight there in his voice. The pain of wanting to sleep but not being able to get there.

  “Okay. Hang on a second.” I glance at my phone where it is sitting in its cradle on the dash being used for GPS. “Siri, play My Favorite Murder.”

  I think I hear a snort of amusement from the passenger seat, but then there’s nothing as the voices of the podcast hosts fill the front of the vehicle.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch as he tips his head back, and opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “I can tell them you’re ill.” I offer.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “It’ll be fine without you. We have Lachlan.”

  “Seri—” He tilts his head lazily in my direction. “I’m just the puppet here. You’ll be feeding me information and telling me what to do. All I need to do is stay awake. I think I can handle it.” A not strictly amused snort. “I’ve been through worse.”

  Seri

  “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you have over as a dinner guest?”

  Huh? I pull my attention off of the obstacle course where an Irish Setter is busy making quick work of a series of jumps, and glance over at Owen. I find him arms crossed over his chest, hunched forward ever so slightly, legs open and braced to keep himself upright against the chair back. His phone is open on his thigh and I can make out itemized text, a list of some sort. “I beg your pardon?”

  He slants me a glance. “Talk to me Seri.” A note of self-deprecating humor enters his voice. “Before I scandalize everyone here by drifting off with my mouth open and drooling all over the side of my face.”

  “A drooler are you?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to find out.” The self deprecation deepens as he offers me a wry look and a wink.

  “I would actually.”

  He snorts. “You say that now—”

  “Drool is sexy.” I keep my voice steady and my face still in the face of his startled regard. “It�
�s a fetish of mine.” I let that settle in the silence between us.

  He frowns. “I can’t tell if you’re serious—”

  Now you’re awake. I suppress the urge to smile. “I’m deadly serious. Drool turns me on.”

  I widen my eyes a bit; do my best to look guileless as I return his confused look.

  “Seri—” He’s blinking now as he tries to sort that out.

  I relent in the face of his exhaustion. Probably shouldn’t expect you to keep up at the moment. “Relax. I’m not serious.” And then, as his confusion dissipates, the sudden impulse to knock him off balance hits, and I add: “I should warn you though that I do have a fetish for gingers.” I meet his startled look. “Specifically, a fetish in regards whether or not the carpet—” I drop a glance at his lap briefly before returning my gaze to his. “Matches the drapes.” I look up at his hair and then once again return my gaze to his face.

  I am just in time to enjoy the way his tired eyes widen with shock and his jaw drops for a second before he pulls it shut.

  I laugh at his comical response. “You awake now?”

  He stares at me as that works its way in, then offers me a slow smile. “Cheeky wretch.”

  “All part of the service here at the department of lunatics.” I offer him a mock salute. Glancing down, I nod at his phone. “Now please tell me why you’re trying to inflict Thirty-six Questions to Fall in Love on me?”

  He shrugs. “Because my brain is solidified jelly at the moment and I need something to focus on.”

  I offer him a raised eyebrow in return.

  He takes my meaning. “It’s the first sufficiently long list of questions I came across that may last the entire duration of the endless nightmare that is this dog show.”

  Tell me how you really feel. I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “And they say romance is dead.”

  Seri

  We get through the show, the speeches and the obligatory social rounds without incident, but by the time it’s all done and finished, Owen is out on his feet, and this time he’s asleep before I can even start the engine of the Land Rover.

  He sleeps the entire way back to the estate, waking only when I stop in front of his cottage.

  “You’re home.” I tell him unnecessarily.

  He stares at me groggily for a moment before sitting forward and running a hand across his face. “Seri—” He sounds like he’s speaking to me from underwater, so I interrupt.

  “Go and get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He sighs, lets his head hang forward for a moment. “Yeah. Okay. Good.”

  Reaching over, I release his seatbelt for him. “Go and get some sleep.” I repeat because he seems to have lost the plot a bit.

  I watch him lurch with uncustomary gracelessness along the walkway leading to his front door, and wonder if perhaps I should have gone with him to make certain he makes it to bed safely.

  After a brief mental debate, I decide against going after him and turn the Range Rover in the direction of my own cottage.

  He needs sleep, and I’m not certain I can keep my hands off of him.

  Seri

  As it turns out, I don’t see him the next day or the day after that. Amory informs me, when she comes to my office to work out the details of the on site housing for participants in the equine therapy program; that both he and Baehr have both been called away to deal with some sort of situation at the NSU Bat Cave. “It’s not like we actually need them over here.” She concludes, crossing her eyes at me.

  The next time I see Bishop-MacQuoide, it’s Tuesday afternoon and he and Baehr have reappeared for an update on the upcoming charity bachelor auction scheduled for Friday two weeks from now. Whereas Baehr looks fresh and remarkably well rested; Bishop-MacQuoide is bleary eyed and gray about the face in a way that suggests that he his sleep situation hasn’t noticeably improved since I’d seen him the prior Friday.

  Two minutes into my briefing, he nods off and I glance over at Lachlan questioningly.

  “Keep going.” He tells me matter-of-factly. “It’s probably easier for him to sleep with some background noise right now.”

  Background noise am I? I give Lachlan a look and he grins in return; gives me a shrug.

  “I can hear you Baehr.” Owen growls without either opening his eyes or lifting his chin off of his chest. Dozing again.

  Lachlan’s grin widens. “Sorry Chief.”

  “Carry on Seri.” This from Owen.

  I narrow my eyes at Amory who is mouthing Carry on Seri at me from her position across the table. Raising my pen I make a threatening gesture at her and mouth: I will cut you. in return, which garners a snort from Lachlan Baehr.

  “When you’ve finished children.” Bishop-MacQuoide murmurs acerbically.

  Those are some impressive back-of-the-head eyes you’ve got there Chief. I think irreverently as I note that his eyes are still closed.

  Amory nods at the paper in my hand; waggles her eyebrows, and mouths carry on one more time for the win.

  Baehr stares at her as if she’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen; catches me noticing, and shrugs.

  There is nothing in Amory’s expression or body language to indicate that she has noticed the heart Baehr’s wearing on his sleeve.

  I spend the rest of the briefing wondering if Amory is as oblivious as she seems, or if she is simply ignoring him.

  Seri

  Both Owen and Lachlan spend the rest of the week in the office.

  Apparently, it’s a slow week for top secret time traveling stuff.

  By Thursday afternoon Owen’s participated in—read slept through—no fewer than six meetings in my office, and despite my general understanding of the situation, I am beginning to develop the tiniest of complexes about it.

  Am I really that boring?

  Of course, the complex is more likely to do with the fact that outside of his naps in my office, and the occasional brief exchange over various work matters, I don’t see him, which leaves me wondering about the status of whatever it is that has been going on between us. Flirtation? Can I call it a flirtation without sounding overly… historical romance novely?

  Eventually, I pull a blanket and pillow out of the basket beside the arm chair and station them permanently on one end of the sofa, and tell myself to just go with it. It’s not like you’re going to be able to effectively sort anything out with someone who apparently hasn’t slept properly in nearly two weeks.

  Also, as Amory keeps pointing out, he is just window dressing.

  A few hours after I put the blanket and pillow on the sofa, I am working at my desk when a knock has me looking up.

  Owen is standing in the doorway that connects our offices. “Yes?” I ask because it’s what you’re supposed to say.

  It’s work appropriate.

  It’s not what I want to say at all.

  It’s what I feel like I can say right now given the recent weird vibe between us.

  So it’s what I say.

  And I regret it almost instantly when I see his shoulders stiffen slightly in response. I watch his tired eyes search my face carefully, and I understand suddenly that this isn’t the Chief. “Owen?” I use his name deliberately.

  He meets my eyes briefly before dropping his gaze to the floor. “Seri.” He says my name like he’s reminding himself who I am. “I’m sorry—” He crosses his arms across his chest and abdomen as if he’s cold. “I uh—need to lay down—” Another slight hesitation during which he hunches his shoulders forward slightly. “Here.” He looks up then, and it’s simultaneously defensive and apologetic. He continues levelly. “I need to sleep here.” He holds my gaze as he half turns to indicate his office. “I can’t sleep, not without...someone in the room making noise—” He raises a hand to scrub at his face. “I know it’s not professional or particularly—” He grimaces down at the floor. “Appealing—but—”

  “Owen—” I push it out past the sudden tightness in my throat. “It’s fine.” I wai
t until he looks up. Will him to believe me. “Absolutely, no worries.” I nod my head in the direction of the sofa. “Go on.”

  Owen

  I wake up several hours later; face covered in drool; not certain what century I’m in. And no that’s not a time travel joke. Not really. That’s just how naps work. You either wake up completely refreshed, or a disgusting, disoriented mess.

  Of course, I’d wake up a disgusting, disoriented mess on her sofa. I know, courtesy of the green velvet in front of my face that my head is tilted toward the back of the sofa.

  What I don’t know is whether or not she’s still in the room.

  Despite the drool, I am surprisingly comfortable—surprisingly because the sofa is too short for me to stretch out on and I’ve been sleeping with my legs drawn up and my hands wrapped across my chest for what feels like several hours.

  My right hip and shoulder ache slightly from bearing the weight of my body and I know I will need to stretch soon.

  But not right now.

  Right now I am warm and comfortable—still more in the relaxed bubble between sleep and wakefulness than out—and despite my disorientation it feels good.

  I know that I should feel cold even with the blanket and I can’t quite figure out why I’m not. The air on the side of my face feels cool, as is appropriate for a building as old as the one we are in, and I know that even though I am curled up on my side to conserve body heat, that my body isn’t capable of producing the kind of heat I am feeling, not after a solid couple of weeks of sleep deprivation anyway.

  I focus on my body, and after a few seconds, it becomes clear that my back and feet feel significantly warmer than anything else. Still not wanting to move, I flex my right foot tentatively, and almost immediately encounter the familiar shape of a hot water bottle.

  Somehow, at some point, Seri must have noticed that I was cold, and tucked a bottle under the blanket by my feet, and another at my back.