+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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Gillian was grateful her overdrive included a basic navigation system, to take her across the 101 and safely to the stairs without stumbling on every chair. From there, she grabbed the handrail to keep from hitting the wall at the bends and went on toward her room. Not exactly the safest place of the universe—she'd found it once, and now she was actually running away from it—but at least a secure corner to hide until it was time to fly back home and lock herself up in her house.
None of this shaped a clear, coherent thought in her mind. Thinking straight was out of the question until further notice. However, blurry ideas kept flashing in her brain, swirling around Brock. She was hurt. She was mad. But most of all she was scared. Because what happened didn't match anything she knew about him.
Only twice before in her whole life she'd felt this lost. When her mother died. When Connor's father left. It felt like choking. She knew she needed to keep breathing, but she couldn't get any air to her lungs. It was terrifying.
Why would he say something like that? Why would he even try such a low blow? That was not him. At all. Not in a zillion years. Then what the hell was going on?
Pity, Reg! Remember? Well, maybe not exactly pity. But close enough. He's the stupid caring man! He just tried to comfort you! No. No way. He was bound to know, or at least suspect, it'd mean an insult to her. Then what the hell was he trying to do?
She reached the second floor and her overdrive made her take a sharp turn to the left. Seeing her door was like grabbing a rope in the stormy sea where she was drowning.
I wanna be with you.
I wanna be with you...
She halted, eyes even wider fixed blankly on her door.
Be.
Could it mean...?
Was it possible that Brock didn't mean 'be' as in 'let's start something together' but as in 'let's get together to have a good time'? No, no way. That was stretching things just too much. Yet it was Brock. She couldn't even picture him using the word 'sex'. So what else would he say it if he wanted to mean something like that?
"Gillian, wait!"
His voice shook her like a voltaic discharge. She heard him stalk the few steps from the stairwell and turned around slowly, with a stupid fear of what she might find.
She hardly met his eyes before he reached her. Then she froze, head sunk between her shoulders. Because Brock grabbed her face with his hands and pressed his mouth to hers.
After the first moment, when she didn't push him away, Brock realized he'd just smashed his lips against hers in a rather rough way. He didn't pull back, though, but softened the contact to really kiss her. Her lips parted and his heart raced. Maybe she was trying to speak. Or breathe. He didn't know and honestly didn't care. He'd make her understand despite her stubborn allergy to returned feelings. So he kept her face close and brushed her lips further apart to deepen his kiss. A chill ran down his spine when she made a shy attempt to kiss him back. Shy! Oh, Lord! Could she be any more adorable?
Okay, Romeo, time to let the lady breathe.
He broke the kiss but didn't let go of her face. And met her eyes to find the thousand questions rioting in her head. He rested his forehead against hers with a hesitating smile, trying not to give in completely to the warm tenderness threatening to take him over.
"Sorry," he murmured. "But you said I shouldn't wait."
