Captivating Witness

“Okay.”

She dropped her lids, but when Brayden moved closer and positioned himself over her, her eyes flew open again immediately.

“I don’t think you counted to ten, let alone thirty,” he said.

Reggie blinked. “Uh. No.”

“Makes it a little harder to check your reactivity to light.”

“Oh.”

“Wanna try again?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes a second time, and Brayden counted the seconds off in his head. One for every rise and fall of her chest. He was hyperconscious of their physical closeness. Every breath brought in that light cinnamon scent of hers. By the time he finished ticking off the moments, she bumped her leg against his. Twice. And she didn’t open her eyes at the end, either. She just continued to sit there, one lip sucked under the other, cheeks slightly flushed, and her long, dark lashes resting lightly on her skin.

Can’t beat this view, Brayden thought, drinking in the sight of her for a few seconds longer before speaking. “I think you’re good now. I’m at a count of fifty-three.”

“Right.”

As she opened her eyes, he brought his finger to her chin and tipped her face toward the light overhead. He held her still as he examined her, and when he did let her go, he had to admit it was with genuine reluctance. At least it was until her green eyes found his gaze and held it. He’d be happy to lose himself in that stare for a ridiculous amount of time.

“So?” she prompted softly.

“So?”

“Do I pass?”

“I wouldn’t recommend running into any more cars tonight, if you can avoid it,” he said, offering her a small smile. “But I don’t think you’re concussed.”

“That’s good news.”

“Sure is.” He eased up off the couch. “I’m going to grab the first aid kit. You want something to drink?”

“Just a glass of water, maybe?”

“On it.”

He pushed up off the couch and moved toward the kitchen. Digging through the cupboards gave him a moment of reprieve from the unusual onslaught of emotion gripping him. There was no denying the effect Reggie Frost had on him. Though he couldn’t pinpoint why, she definitely stirred every protective feeling he had.

And a few not-so-protective ones, he though as he paused in the doorway to admire her profile.

She was leaned over a little on the couch—not slumped, just resting—and she’d tugged her hair free so that her thick tresses covered her face completely.

Real shame to hide that, he thought absently as he stepped into the room and offered her the glass.

“Your water?”

“Thanks.”

Their fingers brushed as he handed it over, and unsurprisingly, another wave of desire swept through him. She met his eyes, and he could swear he saw the same want reflected in her eyes before her gaze dropped and she took a deep sip of the liquid in the cup.

He had to really work to focus on the more pressing needs of the current situation. He unzipped the first aid bag and dug through it for some antiseptic and some gauze.

“This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Might sting,” he agreed. “Why don’t you distract yourself by walking me through what you saw back there in the alley?”

She shivered. “I already told you about the guys and the gun.”

“Walk me through again anyway, starting at the beginning. I want a full picture.”

As Brayden dabbed the first of the cuts, she drew in a sharp breath and launched into the story.

He listened intently as the pretty waitress told him what she’d seen. About recognizing Chuck and about his threats. About the frightened man on the other end of the weapon and their brief exchange. She was just as scared herself. It was clear in the way she kept worrying at her bottom lip, and the slight quiver in her voice as she spoke. He couldn’t blame her for the fear, and it made him itch to reach out and comfort her. To bend down and touch her face and tell her it was all right. Maybe sweep back the stray strand of dark hair that kept slipping down to her cheek.

It was a strange urge for him, and it felt almost as odd to fight it as it did to have it in the first place. He might even have given in to it if his hands hadn’t been busy.

Back home, Brayden had a reputation for being cold and calculating. Though he’d never confirmed its validity, he’d even once heard a rumor that everyone in his department called him Ice when he was out of earshot. It didn’t bother him. Being calculating made him better at his job. Being cold meant he could stay detached. It was part of what made him such an effective cop. It was also the reason he’d been nominated to come to Whispering Woods first. He’d watch. Listen. Gain some insight into what exactly Garibaldi was up to in the tourist town.

So why is that coolness so hard to come by right now?

He studied Reggie for a second, watching her kissable mouth work as she talked.

He had no problem admitting that he found her physically attractive. He’d touched her less than a handful of times—albeit a few extended times—but each had been a bit like being hit by a lightning bolt. It’d taken a sincere amount of effort to not stop and assess it each time it happened.

Actually acting on the feeling was a whole other story. In that, he had a choice. Brayden picked whom he let into his space very carefully, and he could count on one hand the number of women he’d let get close in all his thirty years.

Not like you’ve got much choice here, he reminded himself.

It was true. This situation wasn’t intentional. But it was also true that holding the waitress up while she leaned on him for support was nowhere near unpleasant. It felt good, actually, to be so thoroughly needed. So much so that he almost didn’t notice she’d stopped talking until she cleared her throat.

“Brayden?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“What do you think happened to him?” she asked softly.

“The man who got shot?”

“Yes.”

Brayden hesitated. His instinct was to keep as many details under wraps as he could. The detective in him didn’t like the idea of oversharing. Especially with a civilian. He sensed, though, that not disclosing things would put up a wall, and he was sure he was going to need this woman’s trust. He sat down on the edge of his coffee table and met her eyes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The alley was clean. Except for one small thing.”

“Which was?”