Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

43. IVY

43

IVY

For someone hiding from an oopsy-daisy target on their back, I could have much worse accommodations—I’ll tell you that. This cabin, hidden in the sprawling wilderness, was spotless. Either brand-new or newly remodeled, it had hardwood flooring, blanketed with large area rugs that cushioned your feet from the autumn chill. If that didn’t warm you enough, you could leverage the fireplace that sat beneath a flat screen television, opposite a sectional sofa, complete with fluffy pillows that invited you to sink into its comfort.

And then there was the kitchen, gleaming with high-end appliances and gray cabinetry, each element whispering hints of Grayson’s sophistication and mystery.

I mean, who, exactly, was Grayson? How did a person turn into a CIA assassin, and more importantly, why?

At the risk of sounding like a fool, Grayson seemed nice. Caring, even. I mean look at him—going to these lengths to hide me until he could get this strange CIA termination plot fixed.

And on that note, that was another great point that I needed to remind myself of. He was going against his direct orders, just to try and protect me.

He could have killed me in my townhouse, questions be damned. He could have come to his senses and killed me at his penthouse. But he didn’t. He listened, he believed me, and he drove all the way here so no one else could get to me.

Who was this killer slash protector? How many people had he ended? How many others had he protected?

How many people had Grayson taken here before me? Were any of them women?

My stomach walls tightened at the thought. Why did that question creep into my mind? And what was with the intestinal blanching?

“I hope you like spaghetti,” Grayson said.

I followed Grayson’s voice into the kitchen, where he scrubbed his bubbly hands beneath the sink’s water.

“Won’t be homemade, just bottled sauce and noodles. Easy to heat up.”

For the record, I didn’t want my lips to curl up on one side. They did that all on their own.

“My dad used to make me spaghetti every Sunday.” I don’t know why I said that. But Dad used to stand, washing his hands just like that, and then he’d wear his #1 Dad apron, which was littered with stains, but he still wore it every time he cooked because I’d given it to him for Father’s Day when I was seven.

He cherished everything I ever gave him.

My eyes burned.

“Will you tell me about him?” Grayson dried his hands on a towel.

Those hands…they were capable of the most violent things imaginable. Stabbing, shooting, choking, snapping bones. But with me, they were making me food.

“How long do you think it will take?” I asked.

“Half hour or so.”

“No.” I tucked a hair behind my ear, half grateful he’d let me change out of my pajamas before coming here, half creeped out he’d packed me a kidnapping bag to make changing possible. “I mean, how long will it take to get the information you’re waiting for?”

Grayson removed a large silver pot from the cabinet, set it on the stove, and turned on a water nozzle I’d only seen on television—the kind that fills the pot right there on the stove.

“Shouldn’t be long,” he said.

I twisted my hands together nervously as Grayson moved about the kitchen.

“Why is this happening?” I tried to keep my voice from quivering.

Grayson turned from the stove, closing the distance between us with a few measured steps. In his eyes, reminiscent of a lush forest, I saw an unexpected tenderness, a concern that seemed to wrap around me like a warm blanket on a cold, stormy night.

“We’ll figure it out.” His voice was a soothing balm. “You’re not alone in this, Ivy.”

No. I’m with the man who was sent to kill me. Because life just wanted to find more ways to be ironic, I guess.

I swallowed hard, fighting the warmth that his proximity ignited within me—a warmth eager to spread through every fiber of my being.

Get a grip. He’s just doing his job, babysitting the target.

“What could I have possibly done to make them think I’m a criminal?”

I mean, come on. Donations? My bank account would laugh at the thought. I didn’t have a lot of friends, so I highly doubted I’d unknowingly hung out with someone on a watch list, and even if I had, surely, the CIA would be smart and thorough enough to tell the difference between a civilian and a national security threat.

Grayson’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t know.” The ragged edge to his voice held notes of despair, like he’d been asking himself that same question nonstop. Like it haunted him, almost as much as it haunted me.

His gaze lifted to mine again, a storm of worry and despair brewing within their emerald specks.

Then, unexpectedly, his hand reached out, brushing against my cheek in a gesture so gentle, so laden with unspoken emotions, that my lungs quivered. The heat of his touch sent a jolt of electricity coursing through me, tethering me to this moment, to him, and to the inexplicable feelings I couldn’t surrender to.

“But like I said, you’re not in this alone, okay?” His voice was a vow, a promise that somehow pierced through the walls I had built around myself.

Suddenly incapable of doing nothing more than nod, I fought against this magnetic pull hijacking my thoughts—ones imagining his chest pressed against mine.

In that moment, the storm outside this cabin ceased to exist. There was only Grayson, with his hand on my cheek, and the undeniable truth that, despite everything, despite my attempts to reject it all, he didn’t feel like an adversary.

He felt like an ally.

An ally staring at my lips while his parted, his chest swelling. After a few moments, he measured the resistance in my stare, before tilting his head and drawing his mouth closer to mine.

So slowly, it was agonizing.

If he’d done it quickly, I wouldn’t have this time to think, this time to panic, but here my heart was, launching a counterattack.

I wanted his lips on mine, but that was the problem. That wasn’t normal.

An ally—that I could get my head around. Anything beyond that? No.

He was still my captor.

I couldn’t fall for a lethal assassin. I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. I refused to.

Especially the one who’d tried to kill me.

No matter what my heart and hormones were telling me, I needed to be smart here, so as difficult as it was to pull away, I stepped back before his lips could land on mine.

As Grayson stared at me with a mixture of disappointment yet understanding, I forced the blood to return to my brain.

This is a survival situation, Ivy. Nothing more. There is no future with a hit man, and you can’t let yourself fall for him.

After all, he never said, I won’t kill you , did he? No. He just said he’ll help get to the bottom of this.

It appeared to take him several seconds to break through the fog that had enveloped us, but eventually, he stepped back and resumed cooking—the bubbling of the pan filling the silence between us. When it was done, we sat across from each other at the kitchen table, the steam from the spaghetti curling up toward the ceiling.

I twirled my fork absently, fixating on the swirling strands, trying to pretend I couldn’t feel Grayson’s gaze pressing down on me.

“I’d like you to tell me about yourself,” Grayson declared.

I looked up to find his piercing moss-colored eyes searching my face, my chest fluttering at the sight.

“Why?” I asked, my voice low.

“I want to know you,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table.

We’d talked in the coffee shop, and he’d even been to Grams’s medical facility.

Speaking of which, I needed to get back to everyday problems, like tackling her bill rather than surviving.

“We’ve done this already,” I said, my fingers tightening around my fork. “No one in my life set me up.” I left out the doubts that had been invading my mind.

“Not that,” Grayson said, shaking his head. “I want to know you, Ivy. Tell me about your childhood.”

No way. My walls slammed up around me, screaming at me to just go in the other room and wait this out alone. Even if I was a sharer—I wasn’t—I had no interest in revealing anything personal to a man who’d taken me hostage.

If anything, I wished I could take back the stuff I had already told him about myself. But the way he was looking at me—full of intrigue—made me question if that was the right move. Any moment, Grayson’s cell phone could go off with a fresh order to end my life—one he might no longer fight.

Maybe, just maybe, if he knew more about me, it would be much harder to pull the trigger.

Wasn’t that Hostage 101? Get the would-be killer to see you as human? I had a head start on that with what he already knew about me, but that was just surface level. Dead father, Grams, bills, asshole ex.

Maybe it was time to go deeper. I hated the thought, but Grams had already lost her son, and Mom had already lost her ex-husband.

I couldn’t let them lose me, too.

Fighting had failed. Running had failed. Maybe my only shot at survival wasn’t physical; maybe it was psychological.

I swallowed hard, my pride lodging in my throat. If revealing pieces of my soul was what it took to stay alive, then so be it.

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

He was silent, and the tension in his jaw made it look like he was struggling to keep his restraint as he braced himself to ask something important.

“Tell me who hurt you, Ivy.”