He edged toward the door. “I’ll just head out now—text me when your order is ready for pick up.”
“Which won’t be for a couple of hours,” Tag reminded him. “Heading out now makes for a long wait.”
He forced himself not to look at Sarah. Would she feel uncomfortable being alone with him after what had happened on that bed?
Tram shrugged and offered a dry grin. “It’s Best Buy. Plenty of things there to hold my interest.” He pulled the door open and paused to glance over his shoulder. His gaze gravitated from Tag to Sarah. Offering an uncomfortable, “Yeah…message me when you get the pickup email.” He stepped into the hall.
The silence that settled over the room after the door closed was thick, prickly, and full of unspoken questions.
At one time they’d been as comfortable with each other as an old married couple. One that had spent a lifetime together and knew with a glance what the other was feeling.
Yeah—those days were long gone.
Chapter Eighteen
Tag watched the door close behind Tram, sealing him alone in the room with Sarah.
Fuck.
A python of unease wound around his chest, cutting off the circulation to his brain. Or so it felt.
He’d faced a multitude of threats in his career as a special operator: enclaves of Al-Shabaab or Boko Haram terrorists, corrupt foreign officials, fucking petty criminals roaming the slums of the world, ready to gut you for a few dollars or the watch on your wrist. He’d faced each threat with a cool head, nerves of steel, and intense focus. The combination had kept him alive. Well that, and his training.
It was beyond belief that now, on home soil, because of a slender, red-haired woman, he was ready to jump out of his fucking skin.
“Do you think Devlin and Lucas knew what they interrupted?” Sarah asked in a hesitant voice.
Reluctantly, Tag turned to scan her face. A faint gloss of peach tinted her cheeks. Embarrassment. She was referring to the kiss. Although it had gotten a hell of a lot hotter than a mere kiss.
He shrugged. “They knew.”
Of course they knew. He had no doubt of that. SEALs were trained to scrutinize, to evaluate, to be aware. There was no way his buddies had missed the flush on Sarah’s face, or her heightened respiration, or hell—the machine gun jamming the crotch of his jeans.
Did the thought upset her? If so, that was new. Sarah had never cared what people thought of her. Most people anyway. That had been one of the things he’d loved the most about her.
Although, come to think of it, she’d always been a bit prudish when it came to sex.
“Will you get in trouble?” For the first time, worry crept into her voice and onto her face.
“Trouble?” Tag frowned, trying to follow her train of thought.
“Yes. Trouble.” She sighed and shoved a hand through her hair, leaving it ruffled and messy. “It’s pretty obvious your C.O. is less than thrilled with me. And with you too, now, since you didn’t turn me over to the police. If he thinks we’re doing the hanky-panky, will he come down on you? He obviously considers me little better than Mitch and the gunrunners.”
Her explanation reminded him of her earlier attempts to placate Dev on his behalf. She’d lied. Made it sound like he’d intended to turn her over to the cops. He hadn’t. He wouldn’t. And yeah, what she’d done still frustrated the living fuck out of him. But hell, he couldn’t force himself to turn her in.
Dev would just have to live with her getting off scot-free. He frowned, catching sight of her face, and backed that thought up. Now that the rosy glow of embarrassment had faded, her skin was chalky. Hell, she looked exhausted. Beaten. Like she hadn’t slept in weeks.
She hadn’t gotten off scot-free. Fuck no. She’d paid a hell of a price over the past two years. Not just with the death of her brother, but with anxiety, fear, and trauma.
With two years of hell. She’d paid for her mistakes.
He wasn’t going to make her wallow in them.
Guess he’d just have to get used to that too.
“You hungry? There’s a whole carton of chicken masala in the fridge,” he reminded her, more for something to say than because he thought she might actually be hungry. Hell, it was barely two hours since they’d left the restaurant.
That earlier, itchy tension was back and stronger than ever. Those heated moments on the bed had ramped the strain sky high.