Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven.
He was glowering and she knew it.
Maybe that's why she suggested a walk around the block.
"Cool off."
He said No.
"No thanks."
For a moment, she just bit her lip and looked downwards.
That sent a sick, swooping sensation through his stomach. But just as he was about to open his mouth to change his decision, she looked up, smiling, and raised her hand to brush his cheek.
He held his breath as he felt her smooth skin stroke his own weathered one.
Her hand smelt of lavender. Maybe it was the lotion he had bought for her last Christmas.
As she caressed his cheek, he felt like he was going to, no, wanted to jump her bones.
The thought sent shivers up and down his spine.
But why did he, Gil Grissom, acclaimed entomologist, supervisor of graveyard shift at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, even feel like doing something highly unprofessional with a mere subordinate?
Okay, so he had had several dreams involving and revolving around her.
Sure, he sometimes dreamt of hugging her and woke up wrapped around a pillow.
Yes, he did catch himself once, twice, five times daydreaming about her and the things they'd do together when they were alone as he stared into the murky depths of a jar containing a foetal pig.
But other than that?
It wasn't like he felt anything for the woman.
Really. He didn't.
Her voice drew him back to reality. Her hand, unfortunately, was at her side.
Oh, how he wished to just take his hand in hers and kiss her with all the passion left in his weary, working-twenty-hours-a-day body.
She said she'd be going back inside.
"It's chilly out."
She told him not to stay out too long.
"Oh."
She turned on the steps leading to the apartment complex.
"Don't let me keep you from counting your heart rate."
She winked and disappeared into the building.
He blinked and lifted a hand to his wrist, but stopped.
He really didn't want to know how fast she set his pulse.
Or did he?