They both knew there was no way they could spend the whole night up. Together. Alone. That brief moment in the kitchen was proof enough—ten minutes alone and you're already holding her. Way to go Brockner. You were lucky she didn't panic and shoot you. So Brock waited until Gillian finished the coffee she'd fixed to go with his tea, and applied an unbeatable combo of authority, logic and chivalry to his words.

"No need for the both of us to stay up, Gillian. Go to sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow and one of us needs to be fresh."

Sleep? Alone? With you here? Gillian's eyes darted to the kitchen and recalled the feeling of being in his arms. She nodded at the speed of light. Yep. Going to sleep. Best idea ever. Else they'd be shopping for wedding bands in the morning—and they had a lot of work to do for Monday.

"Okay, but not all night. I'll take the watch in a couple of hours," she said.

Taking shifts sounded like a good plan to get them through the night alive and have some rest as well.

"Okay."

She tried to grab their mugs to take them to the kitchen.

"I'll do it," he said.

Gillian turned to him, saw his faked concern and scowled at him, as if about to chide a child. He arched his eyebrows instead of shrugging. She had to pretend taking offense to keep from giggling like an idiot. His mild smile put her on the run. His ironic sense of humor was a trademark of his charming self. And she was in no shape to face Brock's charming side halfway between the kitchen and her bed.

Brock waited for her to walk into her room and close the door. Then he let out the heartfelt sigh he'd been keeping for the last hour. He borrowed Gillian's tablet and searched for something to read. He hated reading on electronic devices. But the alternative was pondering how good it'd felt, that moment in the kitchen. So he sat on the couch, put on his readers, stretched his long legs and decided that reading George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four once again was an excellent way to keep his mind awake and give his feelings a break.

Behind her closed door, Gillian set her alarm and dropped on the bed. She covered herself with the comforter. Weird, she got to think before falling sound asleep. Had Brock not been there, she'd be wide awake, patrolling the apartment and the building like a watchdog. But he was there, right out the door. Nothing would happen to her and the teens.

She woke up with a jolt and checked the time. Four a.m. Dammit! She'd turned off the alarm in her sleep two hours ago! She jumped out of bed and hurried to the door. She stopped with her hand on the knob. She could use a change of clothes. Still tugging down her long-sleeved top, she strode back to the door, halted, went back to the bed and stretched the comforter in place.

She walked into the living area, eyes narrowed at the soft glow of the lamp after the complete darkness of her room. Brock read on the couch, sipping yet another tea. She rolled her eyes at seeing he hadn't even undone the first button of his shirt or loosened his tie. Well, he had the hint of a light stubble after a whole day away from his shaving machine—and her fingertips knew his skin would feel bristly. Other than that, he looked ready to wear his suit coat and knock at the Oval Office.

He glanced up at her and she pointed at the bathroom. He nodded and resumed his reading.

Gillian washed her face with loads of cold water, brushed her teeth and tied her hair with a loose hairband. Seeing herself in the mirror, she thought that even if she tried, she couldn't look any more sleepy and lacking any attractive. She knew that whatever Brock felt for her had nothing to do with looks. But cultural standards ruled that looks had a lot to do with everything anyway. She turned away from the mirror with a stubborn shrug. Well, if he really meant what he'd said about wanting to be with her, he'd see her like this a lot. There was a gap between wild sex and breakfast, and it included looking like crap. It also happened to occur before dawn. And it was dawn. So what the hell.

She exited the bathroom to head straight to the kitchen as she said, "My shift, sir. Go have some rest. You can use my room." And lock the door, so I won't be tempted to sneak in.

"It's okay, Gillian. I'm not tired. You can use more sleep."

Gillian's boots pulled sparks from the tiles as she halted and spun around, scowling. She knew it was her pre-caffeine mood—too early to call it morning mood—but his words annoyed her. She redirected her strides to the couch and stood by Brock's side. He looked up at her from over his readers and arched his eyebrows, as if asking what she wanted.

"You said no point in staying up the both of us, right?" she said, drier than she meant. "Well, I'm up. So you go get a shut-eye now, sir."

Brock shook his head, frowning. "It's okay, Gillian," he repeated. "Andrea might get up early and—"

He trailed off, because Gillian's scowl disappeared when he mentioned his daughter, and she crouched by his armrest to look up at him. He met her bright blue eyes and left the tablet aside.

"Sir, I know you're worried about her. Of course you are. And I really wish you could trust me to watch over her half as much as I trust you to watch over my son. I wish you knew Andrea is safe with me."

Brock scowled at her, because she was being plain and honest as she always was with him. And she actually believed he'd stay up because he didn't trust her. Then he felt her hand pressing his, as she flashed an apologetic grimace.

"I'm making some coffee for the lads. What d'you want to have?" she said softly.

Once more his body reacted faster than his brain, and his hand caught Gillian's before she could straighten up, keeping her where she was. His other hand rested on her pale cheek.