Chapter 2

Bring a six-pack?

Bring a fucking six-pack?

What the hell was she thinking? What was it about John Reese that made her certifiable?

She stared at her phone for a long moment before she decided it wasn't her fault. No, not a chance. Like everything else that had happened to her since the day she'd met the man, her ridiculous words were his fault. Everything was his fault. It was easy that way.

It let her completely off the hook for the flutter in her belly at the idea that John was on his way to her apartment to see her for a reason that had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with work.

At least the nervous flutter kept her mind from contemplating how easily he'd admitted to being worried about her. That would have been upsetting enough for her to call him and immediately cancel the invitation. Squeezing her eyes closed, she covered her face with her hands and groaned. Had she really just invited John over like they were buddies?

Yes, she had. Sort of. The man had been more or less begging for an invitation. He had volunteered to fix her air conditioning, which the super certainly had little to no intention of doing before she melted. Speaking of which, she winced as she considered her attire. She was hardly dressed for company. Hell, she wasn't even dressed enough to open the shades, but since she was leaving them closed in a futile attempt to keep the apartment cool, that hadn't actually been a problem. Now that she was expecting a visitor, she briefly considered getting up, taking a shower, getting dressed in actual clothes.

But John had said ten minutes and the man was not much for dawdling. Even allowing an extra ten minutes for him to stop and buy beer if he didn't have any, she didn't have time to shower. And if she wasn't going to shower, there was really no point in changing her clothes, just to sweat all over something clean. Besides, it wasn't a date, she told herself. The man was bored and, provided he didn't withdraw his offer the minute he realized just how fucking hot it was at her place, was coming over to fix something. He wasn't going to pay much, if any, attention to her clothes.

Which, she sighed, was rather unfortunate since, sweaty and mussed as she was, she knew she looked damn good in her tank top and boy shorts.

She wondered if John would be wearing his typical suit. She couldn't imagine seeing him in anything else, though certainly a suit made no sense for making mechanical repairs, nor did it make much sense in a heat wave. John liked to blend in. Dressed to the nines in this weather, the man would stick out like a sore thumb. Not that he ever didn't stand out. She'd never been able to figure out how the CIA missed him. All they needed to do was follow the trail of swooning women, and men, in his wake.

Getting up from the couch, she ambled into the kitchen, as she did several times an hour, to pull open the freezer door and lean her head inside. A few blissful breaths of the chilled air and she shivered happily. Such a lovely sensation, being cold. It was a wonder she'd never realized it all those wintry days when she'd been bundled up in four layers and bitching about the temperature. As she stood there, she stared at the carton of ice cream, idly wondering if John liked double chocolate fudge. She couldn't even picture him eating ice cream. The only thing she'd ever seen him with in terms of food was a cup of coffee, which, she couldn't say she'd ever seen him drink. Wondering whether or not the man was at least partially robotic took up far more time than she wanted to admit to herself.

In fact, it was only a sharp rap on the door that pulled her from her insane musings about how many human-robot hybrids the government had created. Shaking her head, she closed the freezer and looked down, realizing that her thin pink top did nothing to hide her physical reaction to the cold air. All of a sudden, she wished she'd changed into something that wouldn't make John think she'd had an ulterior motive in asking him over.

He'd notice. Any man would probably notice, but John? Definitely. He noticed everything and though he'd have the decency not to mention it, he'd never forget it. And he'd have that damn smirk over it too.

Pissed off at herself, she stomped over to the door and threw it open, her angry glare daring him to mention her appearance.

His eyes widened slightly at her, first at her mood, then at her clothes. He worked to swallow, finally pushing out words in a decidedly deeper tone that normal. "Everything ok, Carter?"

As she tried to think of something that would explain her mood swing, her eyes drifted over him. He wasn't wearing his precious suit. He was wearing a close-fitting dark blue polo shirt, the three buttons open - someday she was going to ask him if he was claustrophobic - and faded jeans slung low on his slim hips and sneakers. Black Chuck Taylors. John Reese owned a fucking pair of sneakers.

She reached up to wipe away the drool that had probably started dribbling down her chin. Her hand gripped the edge of the door as she fought to keep herself upright as all the blood in her body rushed south. She nodded to the AC unit beneath the living room window, words beyond her grasp momentarily.

He moved slowly, his face suspicious as he crossed the room. He pulled at the open collar of his shirt. "Damn, it is hot in here."

Her eyes moved of their own accord, taking in the perfect curve of his ass, highlighted by the snug fit of his jeans. The temperature had to have gone up at least ten degrees since he'd walked in, but suddenly she didn't care anymore.