“Okay, okay. No need to get snippy.” She reached up again, and Bo immediately moved away from her, which only made her laugh more. “I wasn’t going to hit you again. I promise. And I am sorry about your face. Really.” She slid her palm across his cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

“Only my feelings.”

She laughed again, leaning into him.

“It wasn’t that funny,” he complained, even while he enjoyed making her laugh. “Now go get dressed. Time.” He tapped his watch for emphasis.

“Okay, okay.”

A half hour later, after Bo had pushed and prodded the woman to have some purpose in her step, they got into his truck.

“Is this thing even legal?”

“It’s not like I can fit into a two-door Ferrari.”

“But I feel like I’m in a military transport plane.”

“Don’t talk to me in the mornings,” he told her. “Not until I get some ice time. Or, at the very least, coffee.”

Bo pulled into traffic, and they drove in silence for a while until he heard himself ask, “Can you explain to me how we ended up on the floor . . . snuggling?”

“Sure, I can explain it,” she said with that natural cheeriness she had at all hours of the day. He now understood why he’d known she was sicker than she was letting on the night before. She’d been surly, rude, and intolerant. In other words, she’d been acting like every other predator he’d known, but she hadn’t been acting like Blayne.

He waited for her to explain what happened, but she kept smiling and staring out the window.

“Can you explain it to me before the end of this millennium?”

“Of course!”

Again Bo waited and again nothing.

Yeah. She was a Navy brat all right. She had the malicious obedience so ingrained in her system, she didn’t even realize when she was doing it.

Taking a breath and wishing he’d had some coffee, Bo tried a different tack. “You and me, snuggling on the floor . . . explain it. Now.”

“I was thirsty.”

Man, she was good. But Bo was determined and raised by a Marine. He could handle this.

He could handle her.

“You were thirsty . . . so you came out of your room for a glass of water.”

“Right!”

“And you saw me lying there . . .”

“On the couch. You looked uncomfortable. All balled up.”

“It was too small.”

“It’s a loveseat,” she reminded him.

“Right. So to help me be more comfortable you . . .”

“Rolled you onto the floor.”

Bo waited to turn at a corner. “Did I wake up?”

“Sort of. You kind of snarled. I thought you might maul me.”

“So to calm me down you . . .”

“Petted your shoulder and said,‘It’s okay. It’s me.’”

“And I . . .”

“Smiled and grabbed me around the waist. Did you know you have a really nice smile?”

“Thank you.”

“You should use it more often.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. So after I grabbed you, I . . .”

“Wouldn’t let go. And I was tired anyway, and you were so warm and comfortable that I just curled up next to you and went to sleep.”

Bo pulled into the underground parking garage of the sports center. He parked in his reserved spot and cut off the engine.

“You have your own parking spot?” she demanded, suddenly not so cheery.

“Yep.”

“How is that fair?”

“It’s fair because it’s to my benefit. If it wasn’t, then it would be unfair. Now let’s go, I’ve got to meet him in the managers’ restaurant upstairs.”

They got out of the truck, and Bo remotely released the rear door so they could grab their bags. He looked at his watch, grimaced.

“You get to go to the managers’ restaurant?”

“Can’t you?”

When she only scowled at him, he decided discussing it further was to no one’s benefit.

Together they walked to the elevators that would take them to the main floor. From there they would take the stairs to the first floor of the shifter-only part of the building deep under the city streets. It was a lot of ups, downs, and sideways, but necessary to protect who they were.

They stepped into the elevator, and Bo pushed the button for the main floor. His foot tapped as the elevator slowly creaked closed.

“Are you always like this?” she asked.

He didn’t ask her what she meant because he already knew. “Yes.”

“You’ll be dead before you’re forty.”

“The great excuse for every lazy ass I’ve ever known.”

“We’re not talking about my issues with time.”

“Of course not.”

“We’re not even talking about your issues with time. We’re talking about your . . . intensity.”

“My intensity, as you call it, is what makes me the player I am.”

“Except you don’t seem like you’re having any fun.”

“Fun? It’s a job.”

“A job you hate?”

“No.”

“Then it should be fun. Otherwise what’s the point?”

“What’s the point? Millions of dollars and the freedom to do what I want.”

“That sounds great!” she cheered. “Which would have much more impact if you weren’t getting tense and being an asshole because there’s the slimmest of chances you might be late to a breakfast meeting with your agent.”