Page 66 of Defending You

Her family mattered to her. Forbes, who wasn’t even a part of her family yet, mattered enough to her that she guarded his necklace like Asher guarded her, as if it were precious. And not because of its value but because it was an heirloom.

Justice mattered to her. She wanted the people who’d been party to the Ballentine murders to pay for their crimes.

Maybe she wasn’t totally shallow. Maybe she had a few values he could respect.

And she wasn’t bitter or cold. She wasn’t the self-absorbed snob he’d painted her to be. She was kind—too kind, refusing to report him even when he’d crossed every professional line.

Ugh.

Those thoughts weren’t helping at all.

Asher needed security, something solid he could build for himself.

Cici was nothing but a distraction.

By the time he finished hispunish myselfworkout routine, he needed another shower. Which was probably a good idea, anyway. A nice cold shower should shock the woman out of his head.

Clean, in fresh clothes, and eager to get moving, he messaged Garrison—the guy who’d delivered them to this house the night before—who responded with a message that he was on his way with wheels. Asher prayed for something discreet, not that he’d bet on it, not with their luck.

A few minutes later, an engine rumbled outside.

Asher grabbed his pack and opened the bedroom door, finding his T-shirt and boxers folded neatly on the floor in the hallway.

Nothing sexy about that, except he’d never get the image of Cici wearing them out of his mind.

Cursing the woman, he shoved the clothes into his pack and strode to the living room.

Cici stood by the back door, gazing at the lake. Her hair was brushed, her clothes from the day before hanging off her. She was beautiful, as always, but certainly not at ease. Her arms were crossed, her shoulders tense.

“Time to go.” He was careful to keep his voice even.

She turned, her expression icy. “I’ll sit in the backseat, since we’re not friends. Isn’t that what a client would do?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He moved to the window. Maybe sheshouldsit in the backseat. The more space between them, the better.

He expected to see two cars, one for them, one to transport whoever dropped it off. Maybe a car and a truck. A truck and an SUV.

Any combination would have worked.

But what rolled into view was Chief Thomas’s pickup with a motorcycle in the bed.

Unless Garrison and Thomas, who’d climbed out and were moving to roll it down a plank to the ground, planned to ride the bike home—and he highly doubted the chief was about to hand over his sixty-thousand-dollar truck—the bike was for them. Which meant Cici wouldn’t be in the backseat. She’d be right behind him, arms around his waist, body pressed against his for miles and hours.

Exactly the last thing he needed. He needed distance—professional distance, not to mention actual, physical distance. He did not need her warmth seeping into him all the way to Shadow Cove.

“Seriously?” Cici’s voice cut through his thoughts as she joined him at the window. “A dirt bike?”

“Not…technically.” It had lights and a license plate, but it was hardly larger than a dirt bike, and the mud caked on the sides told him it could handle off-roading. “You’ll have to hold on tight.”

Her eyes narrowed. Then, one eyebrow ticked up. He could swear he heard her thoughts.

I can handle it if you can.

She grabbed her purse and marched outside.

Asher followed, her coldness hitting hard. He hated that he’d hurt her. He really hated that she thought he still wasn’t over what she did to him in high school.

Fine. Maybe he wasn’t. But this wasn’t about that. This was about the job, about keeping his life on track. Still, her frostiness felt like a wall he didn’t know how to scale.