SCOTT KRAMER came dressed to impress. His black suit was tailored and his brown coiffure as close to perfection as a mortal man could get. Not a single hair out of place. He smiled wide, perfect teeth gleaming. Women and men alike would’ve fawned over him. He would’ve made a wonderful addition to one of those Harlequin-type romance novels—a bodice ripper with the strong, sinewy half-naked heroes. Though, he might’ve been a little too small in frame. Regardless, he had everything else going for him.
“We should move to a table,” Silas suggested. “Some place a little quieter.”
Kramer obliged, not wasting another second at the end of the bar. He hotfooted it toward the patio, and Silas watched his every step, gaze concentrated on one glorious derrière. The patio was vacant, early evening sun dripping down through the few parts in the sea of green umbrellas. Union Avenue traffic rushed by just beyond the iron railing. It was a bit unnerving, what with the storefront being so close to the road. Silas often avoided sitting out there for fear of some insane Memphis driver careening off the road and right into the building. He supposed he could make an exception this once.
Silas sat straight as a board in the chair right across from his more-than-likely soon-to-be assistant, hands folded in his lap, résumé facedown on the table between them. He didn’t smile but only stared as stoically as he could. Indifferent.
“Tell me a little about yourself,” Silas finally said. Despite Mr. Kramer being extraordinarily pleasing to the eye, Silas didn’t want to spend an entire afternoon away from the psychopath and victim he’d so skillfully conjured to tell a tale.
“What would you like to know?” Kramer all but purred, leaning seductively against the table, both elbows resting in a way that would make Silas’s mother roll over in her grave.
Silas cleared his throat and adjusted his posture as if his mother were admonishing him. Elbows off the table, young man. “Tell me something any would-be-employer might ask of a would-be-employee.” Because God knew, Silas had never done anything like this before. He’d been fortunate enough never to have to interview for a job, so he had no clue where to begin. Shirley should be here for this. It was her stupid idea in the first place.
“I enjoy the company of an intelligent man,” Kramer offered, tone casual though his body language screamed sexual implication. He smirked as though he expected Silas to respond with similar innuendo.
“As do I,” Silas said. “However, this interview isn’t for the position of bedmate nor friend. If you’d like to be my assistant, then I suggest you stick to business. If not—” He stood and the chair legs scraped against the concrete. “—then we’ll say our good-byes now.”
“No.” Kramer jerked up from his seat, arm extended across the table. He locked his long, slender fingers over Silas’s wrist. “Don’t go yet. I can behave. I promise.”
“Fine.” Silas proceeded to sit down again, and his eager companion followed, keeping his stare fixed on Silas as if he believed Silas had no intention of hanging around. “Where were we?”
“I love books,” Kramer admitted. “I love the way they feel in my hands and the smell of the pages. I love the way their spines creak when you open them. I love… books.” He smiled fondly. “I interned with—”
From the corner of Silas’s eye, through the wall of windows facing the front of the business, he spotted the man in uniform he’d been chatting with earlier. Officer Hot Body had apparently left and returned, though Silas never saw him leave. A shame that. Silas had told himself he wanted to get a good look at the officer’s hind parts in passing, because cops were a major turn-on. Any man in uniform, actually. With vivid detail, Silas pictured himself being handcuffed to a bedpost while Officer Hot Body stripteased his way toward the bed. One button. Then another. Another. Slowly exposing inch by glorious inch of his muscled chest. Did he have tattoos under that uniform? Or was his body a blank slate?
And he was heading right toward the patio.
“Hi.”
“Well, hello again.” Silas grinned so wide his cheeks hurt.
“I’m sorry to bother y’all.” The officer looked to Kramer, whose pursed lips and furrowed brow told the story of immense displeasure. He’d get over it. “I just—” Officer Hot Body held out a pen and a piece of paper. “I’d never forgive myself if I left here without getting your autograph.”
“It’s perfectly fine, dear,” Silas offered, holding out his hand. “Who should I make it out to?” Because Officer Hot Body probably wouldn’t be appreciated.
“Ben. Ben Logan.”
“Ben Logan.” Silas grinned wider. “You look like a Ben Logan. Is it Ben or Benjamin?”
“Whichever.”
Silas chuckled softly as he scribbled on the page. “Benjamin Logan, American hero.”
Without lifting his head, Silas turned a glance in Ben’s direction. He had to see if Ben was the kind of humble guy whose cheeks pinked at a compliment, or so cocky his chest puffed up in pride. Neither happened, which further fed Silas’s intrigue. Ben stood there, arms tucked behind the small of his back as if he were awaiting a command from a much higher-ranking officer. He kept his expression stoic, eyes trained on the paper, following each line left behind from the ballpoint pen in Silas’s hand.
“Here you are, Benjamin Logan.”
A crooked grin pushed a single dimple into Ben’s cheek. He retrieved the signed page from Silas and held it between both hands. “Thank you. Sincerely.”
“It’s the least I can do for someone who risks his life to keep others safe.”
Ben nodded, held up the signed paper, then proceeded toward the door. Silas couldn’t help watching him, the way his uniform clung to his plump ass. Did all asses in uniform look that good? Doubtful.
Kramer cleared his throat, and though the sound was obviously meant as an attention thief, Silas wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not so easily, anyway.
An appropriate amount of time passed—a few seconds at most—and Silas turned his head back to the man he’d been interviewing before Benjamin Logan came in and stole the show. Kramer wore a mask of impatience—pursed lips, arched brow, pointed stare. How dare he?
“So, about the job?” Kramer asked.
Of course, a reasonable person would consider his other options, maybe interview a few other candidates. A reasonable person wouldn’t jump at the first chance to hire someone. But all things considered, Silas didn’t have the time or patience to be a reasonable person. If he didn’t hire someone soon, Shirley would read him the riot act again, and truth be told, Silas only wanted to write.
“How about this,” Silas said. “How about we test the waters? Say… a thirty-day probation? If we like each other, we’ll make it a more permanent situation.”
“Sounds fair.”
“It does, huh?” Silas winked.
Kramer smiled. “When can I start?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll have to tell my publicist I hired someone. She’ll have some questions for you, I’m sure. She might even require a background check.” Silas snorted. “She’s very protective of me.”
“Whatever I need to do.”
“I like your enthusiasm. Here.” Silas tore off a corner of the résumé and jotted down his address. “It’s in Central Gardens. Not too hard to find. A cute old craftsman with a big, poorly landscaped front yard.”
“I’m familiar with the neighborhood.”
Silas rose from his chair, and like a good little minion, Kramer followed the cue. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” Silas reached his hand across the table. Kramer didn’t hesitate to lock his fingers around Silas’s palm, giving him a good, solid handshake. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Should I bring coffee?”
“That would be a perfect way to start your first day.”
IN HIS squad car, Ben sat behind the wheel, trying like hell to put the last few notes on his paperwork. Silas Cooper’s autograph kept calling out to him from the passenger seat. Look at me. Look at me. Look. At. Me. The voice sounded just as smooth and silky as the real Silas Cooper’s had. Ben never got starstruck, but he’d never had anything autographed before. This wasn’t any old signature on a piece of paper either. It was the scribbled autograph of a man whose words had pulled Ben through the hardest days and nights of his life, words that drowned out all the explosions and gunfire so Ben could escape the reality of war and death and things he’d never be able to forget.
He slammed his leather book shut and pitched it in the seat beside him, careful not to let it land on Silas’s autograph. Then he put his car in gear and wheeled out of the Starbucks’ parking lot.
THANK GOD Ben had to drive less than a quarter of a mile to get back to the precinct, and most of that was maneuvering back onto Union Avenue. He pulled up, parked his squad car, went inside to turn in his paperwork and clock out, then changed into his gym clothes so he could work out before going home.
“Hey, Logan,” someone yelled from behind him.
Ben lifted his head. It was one of the Charlie-shift guys. Brown. Ben always avoided him because Morgan Brown triggered all the wrong responses for Ben. He had the piercing blue eyes that sparkled like diamonds against his tan skin. Short curls of golden blond twisted out from his scalp. Kid had to have been a surfer before moving to Memphis and joining the force. They sure as shit didn’t make ’em like that here, and his accent sounded more West Coast than Deep South.
“I’m off tonight,” Brown said. “What are you getting into?”
“Headin’ to the gym,” Ben muttered, half hoping his faked lack of interest would put Brown off any more interrogating. It didn’t. Brown sat down right beside him. The wooden bench jostled enough for Ben to grab its edge.
“Skip the gym.” Brown gave Ben’s arm a playful punch. “You’ve got mad guns already, dude. Come hang out and have a beer with me.”
Why? For what reason? We’re not friends. “I’m not a big drinker.”
“Then drink small,” Brown quipped with a wink.
What. The. Fuck? Where was this attention coming from? Morgan Brown had never spoken two words to Ben before. They weren’t chummy, not even a little, and Ben was pretty fucking certain if he told his fellow officer about the not-so-little man crush he had on him, then Morgan wouldn’t want to hang out and have a few beers. Jesus H. Christ, Ben did not want to spend his night sucking down booze while fighting the urge to suck face with someone who could potentially ruin his career.
“Stop thinking so hard,” Brown said. “This isn’t a life-or-death situation.”
Ben snorted.
“Two beers. Then I’ll let you go home.”
“You’ll let me go home?” Ben arched a brow.
“You know what I mean.”
“Who else is going?”
“Nobody.” Brown leaned in a little closer. His cologne nailed Ben right in his olfactory, but dammit he smelled good. Like he’d just climbed out of a hot shower and took a run through an evergreen forest or something. Shit. Brown whispered, “I don’t really know anyone, and they don’t really seem to want to know me. You know?”
“No,” Ben said flatly, reclaiming his personal space before little Ben decided to steal the show. He shifted on the bench, turning more toward his locker, hoping the renewed lack of interest would put Brown off enough to make him get up and walk away. It didn’t work. Brown didn’t budge. “Look, I just wanna go to the gym and go home.” Exasperation dripped from Ben’s voice. He couldn’t help it, didn’t care to help it. Brown needed to know he was seriously pushing his luck and trying the shit out of Ben’s patience.
“Then let me work out with you.”
Dammit. Ben sighed. “I prefer working out alone.”
“Then tell me to go the fuck away.”
Brow furrowing, Ben turned a pointed stare on his tormenter. He couldn’t believe Brown actually said that. He couldn’t believe how aggravated Brown sounded.
“What the hell is your problem?” Ben asked.
“How the hell can you be so oblivious?”