Now we were performing some sort of cozy, domestic scene in the kitchen. Coffee brewed, a gorgeous, barefoot man did breakfasty things at the stove, and the faithful dog danced at our feet.
Nash scooped a portion of the eggs onto one of the three paper plates he’d lined up and set it aside. The little dog sprang out of my lap to paw at Nash’s leg.
“Hold your horses. Let it cool off first,” he advised her. Her raspy yip said she wasn’t interested in holding anyone’s horses.
I got up and washed my hands. Nash tossed me the hand towel he wore over his shoulder, then started sprinkling cheese over the eggs. Feeling companionable, I found two dirty mugs on the counter and washed them.
The toaster spit out two pieces of nicely browned bread just as I poured the first cup of coffee.
“We found her in a pipe. So how about Piper?” Nash suggested suddenly.
The dog perked up, then sat, cocking her head.
“She likes that one,” I noted. “Don’t you, Piper?”
She wiggled her little hind end in acknowledgment.
“Think we’ve got ourselves a winner,” Nash agreed.
I poured the second mug, watching as he deposited the plate of eggs on the floor. “Come and get it, Piper.”
The dog pounced, both front paws landing on the plate as she scarfed up her breakfast.
“She’s going to need another bath,” I said with a laugh.
Nash dropped a piece of toast on each of the remaining plates, then awkwardly used his right hand to top them with the cheesy egg mixture.
“And more breakfast,” he observed, handing me a plate.
Nash Morgan was going to make some woman very lucky someday.
We ate standing in the kitchen, which felt safer and less domestic to me than clearing a spot at the table. Though I wouldn’t have minded another look at those files.
I was here to do a job, not complicate things by getting cozy with an unfairly hot neighbor.
Even if he did make really good cheesy eggs. And looked really good with his fresh shirt and soulfully wounded eyes. Every time our gazes connected, I felt…something. Like the space between us was charged with energy that kept intensifying.
“What makes you feel alive?” he asked abruptly.
“Huh?” was my witty response, my mouth crammed full of the last bite of toast.
He was holding his mug and staring at me, half of his breakfast abandoned on the plate.
He needed to eat. The body needed fuel to heal.
“It used to be walking into the station for me. Every morning, not knowing what the day would hold but feeling like I was ready for anything,” he said almost to himself.
“Doesn’t it make you feel the same now?” I asked.
He gave a one-shouldered shrug, but the way his eyes locked on me was anything but casual. “What about you?”
“Driving fast. Loud music. Finding the perfect pair of shoes on sale. Dancing. Running. The chase. Sweaty, desperate sex.”
His gaze turned hot and the temperature in the room seemed to rise several degrees.
Need. It was the only word I could think to describe what I saw in those blue eyes of his, and that still didn’t do it justice.
He took a step toward me and my breath caught in my throat thanks to a wild mix of anticipation, adrenaline, and fear. Wow. Wow. Wow.
My heart was about to explode out of my chest. But in a good way for once.
I needed to get a hold of myself. Wasn’t I trying to avoid impulsive leaps?
Before either of us could say or—dear lord—do anything, my phone rang shrilly, jolting me out of whatever bad idea I’d been about to jump into.
“I, uh, need to take this,” I told him, holding up my phone.
His gaze was still locked on me in a way that made everything inside feel just a little desperate. Okay, fine. A lot desperate. And a million degrees of hot.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime, hotshot,” I managed weakly as I tried not to run for the door.
“Hi, Daley,” I said, answering the call as I closed Nash’s door behind me.
“Lina,” my boss said by way of a greeting. Daley Matterhorn was an efficient sort of woman who didn’t use two words when one would do. At fifty-two, she oversaw a team of a dozen investigators, held a black belt in karate, and participated in triathlons for fun.
“What’s up?” Our line of work didn’t respect the Monday through Friday nine-to-five hours, so it wasn’t concerning that she’d called on a Saturday morning.
“I know you’re in the middle of an investigation, but I’d like you to put that on pause. We could use your help in Miami. Ronald tracked the missing Renaux painting to the home of a recently arrested drug kingpin. We need someone to lead a retrieval team tomorrow night before some officer of the law decides the painting is either evidence or an asset to be frozen. There’s only a handful of security on-site. Should be a piece of cake for you.”
I felt the familiar quickening of my pulse, excitement rising at the thought of tiptoeing just over the line for another win.
But putting together an operation in twenty-four hours wasn’t just risky, it was downright dangerous. And Daley knew it.
Damn it.
“You’re asking me to lead a team after what happened on the last job?”
“You got the job done. The client was thrilled. And I didn’t hear you complaining when you collected your bonus.”
“Someone got hurt,” I reminded her. I got someone hurt.
“Lewis knew the risks. We’re not selling life insurance policies and pushing papers here. This job comes with a certain amount of risk and anyone who doesn’t have the balls to face that is welcome to seek employment elsewhere.”
“I can’t do it.” I don’t know which one of us was more surprised when the words came out of my mouth. “I’m making progress here and now isn’t a good time to leave.”
“You’re basically doing on-site research. I can send someone else to ask questions and search property records. Literally anyone else.”
“I’d prefer to see this through,” I said, digging in my heels.
“You know, there’s a position opening up in High Net Assets,” Daley said, casually dangling my dream job in front of me like it was a pair of sparkly Jimmy Choos.
“I heard rumors,” I said, my heart beating a little faster.
The High Net Assets department meant more travel, longer jobs, deeper cover, and bigger bonuses. It also meant more solo assignments. It was my big, scary goal and now here it was.
“Something to keep in mind. It’ll take someone with guts, someone who isn’t intimidated by dangerous situations, someone who isn’t afraid of being the best.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Good. If you change your mind about tomorrow, call me.”
“Will do.” I hung up and shoved my hands into the front pocket of Nash’s hoodie.
Part of me wanted to say yes. To get on a plane, dig into the intel, and find a way in. But the bigger, louder part of me knew I wasn’t prepared to lead a team. I’d proven that resoundingly.
And there was another smaller, barely audible part that was getting tired of shitty motels and endless hours of surveillance. The one that carried the mantel of guilt and frustration for an op gone wrong. The one that might be losing her edge.