“It’s creepy as hell,” Thomas said, stepping off my dining room chair onto the carpet.

“It’s a Yamamoto Takato. He’s my favorite Japanese modern artist.”

“Who are they?” Thomas asked, referring to the two sisters on the painting.

They were resting outside at night. One sister was looking on, quietly enjoying whatever mischief was happening before them. The other was looking back at Thomas and me, sullen and bored.

“Spectators. Listeners. Like us.”

He looked unimpressed. “They’re weird.”

I crossed my arms and smiled, happy that they were finally in their place. “He’s brilliant. You should see the rest of his work. They’re tame in comparison.”

His expression told me he didn’t approve of this new piece of information.

I lifted my chin. “I like them.”

Thomas took in a breath, shook his head, and sighed. “Whatever frosts your cookies. I guess I’ll, uh…head out.”

“Thanks for taking me home. Thanks for the anchor. Thanks for hanging the girls.”

“The girls?”

I shrugged. “They don’t have names.”

“Because they’re not real.”

“They’re real to me.”

Thomas picked up the chair and returned it to the table, but he gripped the top, leaning over a bit. “Speaking of things that aren’t real…I’ve been trying to think of a way to talk to you about certain aspects of the trip.”

“Which ones?”

He stood up and walked toward me, leaning down just inches from my face, slightly turning his head.

I pulled away. “What are you doing?”

He backed off, satisfied. “Seeing what you would do. I was right to bring this up now. If I don’t show affection, they’ll know something is up. You can’t pull away from me like that.”

“I won’t.”

“Really? That wasn’t a knee-jerk reaction just then?”

“Yes…but I’ve let you kiss me before.”

“When you were drunk,” Thomas said with a smirk. He walked to the middle of the room and sat on my couch like he owned the place. “That doesn’t count.”

I followed him, watched him for a moment, and then sat on his right, leaving not even air between us. I nuzzled my cheek against his chest and slid my hand across his rigid abdomen before digging my fingers into his left side, just enough so that my arm stayed in place.

My entire body relaxed, and I crossed my right leg over my left, letting my calf overlap his knee so that every part of me was at least a little bit draped over him. I cuddled up against him with a smile because Thomas Maddox—the astute, always-in-control Special Agent—was as still as a statue, his heart thundering in his chest.

“I’m not the one who needs practice,” I said with a grin. I closed my eyes.