Things between me and East, however, were not making much progress.
Every night, he carried me into the bathroom, refusing to allow me to do anything for myself. He was gruff and stern and ever watchful. And then, scowl fully in place, he would draw me a bath, complete with candles and all of the scents that I loved like vanilla and honeysuckle.
The worst was when he would slide my robe off, his gaze completely shuttered. I couldn't even tell what he was thinking as he helped me into the tub. And then he would dutifully and stoically wash my back, as if I wasn't naked in his tub.
To be fair, I was not a good patient. I was giving him hell. I kept insisting on trying to work, on doing things for myself, begging to leave the penthouse.
But he wouldn't let me near a laptop or let me go anywhere but the balcony for my own safety. And God help me if I asked to actually go into the office. He’d locked me in the other day. And when I finally managed to find out his stupid combination to the lock on the door, there was a guard stationed at the elevator to stop me from leaving.
I was a prisoner.
You're being melodramatic. He's trying to keep you safe.
Safe and untouched.
And I was horny. So it didn't help that every night he would give me a bath and not look at me. Not that I actually wanted him since I was still mad about the whole gunshot thing.
Liar. You want him. Probably more than you did before.
I was going crazy. There were only so many Netflix shows I could watch. I had cases. Things to do.
Amelia, my sole ally, was even worse. She'd come and see me at night but refused to talk about work. I didn't even know where we were with our cases or what was going on with Jameson or Theroux.
The only helpful person was Hazel. But she could only tell me bits and bobs that Denning had told her, which was barely anything because Denning knew better. He compartmentalized really well. For him it was work life and home life, and never the twain did meet.
Livy was marginally helpful, because she at least told me that the guys had met at Ben's, but it had been a closed-door meeting at the office, just the guys. No Lucas, no Roone, no Jessa, so it was probably a work thing. But how the hell were we going on a full week with no news? No information. Nothing. I was going insane.
Amelia came in that night with a smile and a box. I pushed up from my sloth position on the couch, wincing only a little as the stitches pulled.
Oh, yes. No wonder East isn’t in a hurry to shag you.
The man in question caught my look and started to come over, so I put a hand up. "No, you will not fawn over me. I am fine."
Amelia chuckled. "Oh, I see she's still in her usual cheery mood."
East’s voice was barely above a grumble when he said, "Well, someone did shoot her. That someone was me, so she is entitled to be grumpy. Here, let me get you a glass of wine. Nyla, red? White? rosé? Any preference?"
I glowered at him. "Scotch. Neat."
He barely bit back a laugh. "So, rosé it is then?"
"I asked for a scotch, damn it."
"Yes, but you hate the taste. Every time we have it, your whole face scrunches up and you cough. You don't like scotch. You're saying you do because I offered wine, and you want to be contrary. Which I get, and I deserve. But I would rather make you happy, so you can have the wine."
I grumbled and huffed. "Wine is fine."
I could hear his low mumbling as he marched on toward the kitchen.
Amelia did not hide her laugh. "Oh God, you are putting him through his paces. Any chance of a reconciliation here?"
"No, he shot me."
She nodded. "But I could see the way you were looking at his ass as he walked out. The more you snipe at him, the less likely it is that he's going to give you what you actually want, and I think you need to get laid."
She had a point. Not that I was admitting it. "No. What I need is to go to work. Why are you guys keeping work stuff away from me?"
"The doctor said you needed to rest. So that’s what we're doing. We're letting you rest."
"I'm going insane. Please give me something, Amelia. Anything. What's going on with Jameson?"
She rolled her eyes. "We can't touch him. He insists nothing is missing, so Denning has us doing a full inventory. One interesting note though. Jameson insists he knows who broke in."
I winced and rubbed my temples. "Oh God, they know it was East?"
Amelia laughed and shook her head. "No. Thank God. But check this out. He's insisting Francois Theroux broke in and that's who shot you."
My eyes went wide. "He's insisting Theroux is the one who tried to rob him?"
She nodded and grinned. "Yeah. It's actually brilliant. It didn't matter that Denning tried to tell him that it couldn’t possibly have been Theroux because he has been inactive for years. None of that mattered, because Jameson is determined."
I frowned. "But he can’t have proof. And what’s their history?"
She shrugged. "Obviously he has no proof. Thanks to East. As for their history, I’ve started digging, but so far nothing. What I do know is that Denning and your father are very much trying to find the perpetrator who shot you. Thinking it’s Theroux will kick
