Chapter 9

“Eighteen, take it easy. Don’t test me a second time.”

Oz rolled his eyes as he turned his back on the referee and walked away. Skyline was up one-nil with twelve minutes to go. He was sick of his opponents hurling themselves all over the pitch as if they’d been mortally wounded, and even sicker of this passive-aggressive ref and his linesmen. If this guy offered one more vague, don’t-test-me threat, he was going to—

“Eighteen. Eighteen.”

Oz spun on his heel. “What?”

The ref’s eyes narrowed in irritation as he reached into his pocket and raised a yellow card.

Oz threw up his hands. “Are you kidding me? For what?”

“Dissent.”

“That is an absolute joke. That is a complete fucking—”

“He is sorry.” Kojo, Oz’s Togolese counterpart on the right wing, stepped in with his palm raised.

“Play on,” the referee decreed, and the two defenders jogged toward the midline.

Oz heard his name. Roland gestured angrily from the manager’s box, and although the crowd was too loud to make out what he said, it was clear he was unimpressed.

He exhaled, trying to ignore the cramp in his thigh, the free kick awarded against him, the manager swearing at him in Swedish. They were winning, and unless something outrageous happened in the next ten minutes, this home match would end with three points on their score sheet.

Yet he was as pissed off as if he’d personally conceded a goal. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Kate.

It was unlike him to be so fixated on a woman, never mind one who’d made her disinterest so abundantly clear.

Then again, he’d never had to get over a woman who’d turned him down before.

Maybe this was his karmic comeuppance. His turn to feel the sting of the rejection he’d dished out time and time again. Maybe this would be a valuable lesson in humility. Hadn’t every woman he’d ever been with eventually told him he was arrogant? And maybe Kate was right, his attraction was misguided, and it was best this whole crazy idea ended before it began.

He’d get back on the dating app, he decided as Skyline’s forwards passed the ball slowly between them, letting the clock tick down. Lots of bored, single people spent their Sunday nights flipping through profiles, trying to set up dates for the week. He’d be one of them, and by Wednesday Kate would be a distant memory.

“You better slow down or your thumb’s going to fall off. Is it left here?”

“Sorry.” Oz looked up from the app to peer through the windscreen of Deon Ellis’s super-high-end SUV. With his own car in the shop for a minor repair, he was grateful for the post-match lift. “Yeah, left here.”

“What is that, anyway?” The striker stopped at a red light and craned his neck to see Oz’s phone.

“Dating app. You swipe left to reject, or right to say you’re interested.”

Deon winced. “Harsh.”

“It’s a jungle out there. You’re lucky you got to Olivia before she knew better.”

“So lucky. At fourteen I only had to compete with the other guys in our high school. No social-media catfishers to intercept my game.”

“That’s the problem. There are so many profiles you have to be ruthless. Like this one. Amanda. Located five miles away, age twenty-six. Brand and marketing executive. Interested in literature, baseball, wine, and jazz.” He held up the phone so Deon could glance at her photo.

“Looks hot. Are you going to swipe right?”

“Left.” He moved his thumb across the screen decisively.

“What? Why? She’s perfect. You like wine, and you also refer to books as literature.”

“I hate jazz.”

Deon shook his head. “Picky. Read me the next one.”

“Layla. Age twenty-seven, six miles away. She’s wearing a ski outfit in her photo.” He held up his phone.

“She’s cute. What’s her profile say?”

“She likes tennis, whiskey, and the Sunday crossword. Recovering corporate lawyer now working for a legal-aid charity. Then she writes, Let’s get pizza.”

“Dude, swipe right. Swipe right immediately.”

He swiped left. “Not for me.”

Deon shot him a look of shock. “Are you trying to be single forever?”

“I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

“What do you want, then, if not a crossword-completing, whiskey-drinking, public-good-doing lawyer?”

“I don’t know.” Oz lifted a shoulder. “I’m looking for someone a little more down-to-earth. Someone who’ll stick with me after the soccer thing fizzles out. Who can spend a Saturday afternoon in my VIP box and not get conceited about it. Who’ll laugh at me and tell me I’m being pretentious. Then beat me at pool.”

Someone exactly like Kate Mitchell.

“But you’re assuming the women in those photos aren’t like that, when there was nothing in their profiles that suggests that.”

“True.” He pocketed his phone and turned to the striker. “What’s the secret to a long and happy relationship?”

Deon smiled and shook his head. “I’ve got only eleven years of experience. You should ask someone else.”

“I’m serious. You and Olivia are the couple everyone wants to be. Steady, drama-free, and so affectionate it makes most of us feel sick, to be honest. What’s the magic formula?”

“Compromise,” Deon answered promptly. “Adjusting what you want or need—or what you think you need—to suit the other person in a way that respects you both.”

Oz waited, and when Deon didn’t elaborate he asked, “That’s it?”

“That’s most of it.”

“What’s the rest?”

Deon’s teeth shone bright white in the dark SUV. “Super-hot sex as often as possible.”

A bolt of desire arrowed through him with such force he had to grip the edge of his seat to brace himself as Kate’s image lodged in his mind. That inch of skin between her shirt and her jeans. Warm and soft and beckoning. He wanted to know what the rest of her felt like. Wanted to see her, touch her, taste every hill and valley in—

“Here we are.” The striker stopped in Oz’s driveway. Oz swept up his gym bag from between his feet, hoping his teammate didn’t notice his unsteady hands.

“Thanks for the lift. And the advice.”

“Swipe right on Layla. I want to hear all about your date at Pizza Hut.”

“I’ll think about it. See you on Monday.”

Oz shut the door behind him and waved as Deon reversed down the driveway.

The noise of the SUV’s engine receded as Oz fumbled in his bag for his house keys. He unearthed them from beneath a spare pair of shin pads and made his way up the flagstones to the front porch.

Maybe Deon—and Glynn and Ted and Sean, for that matter—were right. So his last few dates fell flat—how much of that was his fault? He’d let Kate, or the idea of Kate, distract him from the type of woman he’d always been with, the type he’d always sought. The type who would finally make his parents proud.

The busted evening with Davida was one hundred percent at his feet. He didn’t give her the respect and attention he should have. He wondered whether she would take his call now if he was sufficiently groveling and apologetic.

Probably not.

He hiked his bag up onto his shoulder and took his phone from his pocket as he climbed the front steps. He’d swiped left on Layla and Amanda, but there were plenty of other profiles to thumb through. He’d make his recovery shake, settle into the study with—

He stopped two steps inside the house, his hand hesitating over the light-switch panel.

He’d just pushed open the door without unlocking it.

Or turning the handle.

He barely breathed as he stepped backward onto the porch, squinting up at the house and around at the lawn, on high alert for any sign that something, or someone, was where it shouldn’t be. Moving as quietly as possible toward the road, he unlocked the screen on his phone and typed in 9-1-1—then stopped, his thumb hovering by the call button.

He was being paranoid. As far as he could see nothing was out of place or broken. The security lights were on, the garage door was shut. The mailbox was clean and shiny, free of graffiti.

“What the hell?” he asked himself in Swedish.

Maybe he left it open and never noticed. He normally came in through the garage—when was the last time he even used that door? It could’ve been hanging open for days. He hadn’t bothered to put on the alarm or the beams, as usual, and the keychain with the panic button linked to the security company was on the kitchen counter.

He was definitely being paranoid. He cancelled the 911 call and scrolled to Kate’s number instead. She was his security contractor, after all. This was what the team paid for.

She answered on the second ring, sounding exasperated. “Hi, Oz.”

“Don’t worry, this is a professional call.” He mounted the steps again.

“With regard to?”

“I just came home from our match and my front door was open.”

“Where are you now?” she demanded, her tone rocketing from casual to urgent. The change made him slightly uneasy, but he pushed through the door a second time and dropped his bag on the floor.

“I’m inside.”

“Don’t take another step. Turn around and leave. I’ll alert our dispatch to send a car, but in the meantime you need to call the police.”

“It’s really not—”

“Give me two seconds to call dispatch. Get out of the house.”

The line crackled as she put him on hold. He flicked on the lights in the entryway and scanned the vast room. Everything looked exactly as he left it. He exhaled in relief.

“Oz? Are you there?”

“I’m here. I probably left the door open by mistake. Everything seems completely normal.” He wandered through the big house toward the kitchen, turning on lights as he went.

“The car should be there in less than five minutes, and I’m on my way,” she explained. He heard the whoosh of wind and the thud of her car door. “Did you call the police?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. I hardly ever use the front door. It’s probably been open for days. Anyway, I’m in the lounge now and all the windows are shut tight, the TV’s still here. Nothing’s been touched as far as I can tell.”

“You’re still in the house?” she asked, incredulity shrilling her voice. “Oz, get out of the house.”

“Look, I shouldn’t have called you. I overreacted. I’ve checked the whole ground floor. I’m walking into the kitchen now. The back door is shut, everything is—”

He stopped short, his jaw slackening. Words dried up in his mouth. Thoughts slowed to a halt in his brain. All he could do was stare.

Kate’s voice squawked his name on the line, but at a lower and lower volume. Eventually he realized it was because his hand was drifting to his side, his fingers barely managing to stay tight around the phone.

“Oz? Are you there? Tell me what’s going on. Are you all right? Oz? Hello? For God’s sake, will you please say something?”

He couldn’t. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t believe this was happening to him.

* * * *

“I arrived approximately fifteen minutes after my patrol-team colleagues and found the scene exactly as you see it.”

Detective Hegarty nodded, scribbling in his notebook. “And did Mr. Terim explain why he called you instead of dialing 911?”

“He thought he’d been absent-minded and left the door open,” Kate explained.

“Why would he call private security if he’d been absent-minded?”

“My bet is he second-guessed himself. Instinctively he suspected something was wrong, but he didn’t want to make a fuss in case it was nothing.”

“Got it. Anything else he said, or that you want to share, which you think could be of value to this investigation?”

She bit her lower lip, thinking carefully. “No, I’ve told you our whole exchange. You have the history and context—the graffiti on the mailbox and all that. But if I remember anything else, I’ll let you know.

“I’d appreciate that.” He scanned over the page. “I think that’s all we need from you.”

“You have my number, if not.”

“We do. Thank you, Miss Mitchell.”

“No problem.”

At the other end of the room a police officer wearing rubber gloves shook open a large plastic bag. He used it to scoop up the severed pig’s head that had been dumped on Oz’s kitchen counter amidst a series of swastikas—finger-painted in animal blood—marring the pristine white cabinets and stainless-steel appliances.

As awful as it was, she hoped ugly hatred was the simple motivation behind the break-in. If the perpetrator knew Oz well enough to understand how deeply he would feel an attack on his beloved house, it made this personal, and gave it potential to happen again.

She turned at the thought of Oz. He sat on a couch in the lounge with his back to the kitchen, elbows on his knees. The policeman walked past with the bagged pig’s head, and Oz watched him all the way to the front door.

She stared at Oz for another minute, her lingering irritation receding into sympathy. She wanted to strangle him when she took his call, first for failing to use any of the layers of security in place at his house, and then for recklessly barging into what could’ve been, and turned out to be, a crime scene.

Now, though, he was quiet and alone amid the busy energy of policemen circulating, Peak Tactical personnel guarding the house’s perimeter, and the occasional flash through the window from the handful of paparazzi lining the curb.

She bet those photographers were disappointed their police-scanner eavesdropping hadn’t led them to a bigger celebrity crime. Served them right.

She crossed the room and dropped into the empty space beside Oz.

“How are you holding up?” On impulse she put her hand on his knee, then ripped it off so quickly she nearly rocked backward.

Boundaries. That he looked sad and isolated and inappropriately broody-sexy didn’t make her the right person to rescue him.

“Fine, considering.”

“Did you speak to Roland?”

He nodded. “He flipped out, unsurprisingly. He’s probably calling the FBI right now. Or buying a gun.”

“It’s good to have a boss who cares about you.”

He shrugged, distracted.

“I had a long conversation with one of the detectives,” she began. “The good news is that although you wouldn’t let us install surveillance cameras here, one of your neighbors has them on their property. They got a glimpse of a man hurrying down the sidewalk at around the time they think the break-in happened. The picture isn’t great, and the guy has the hood up on his sweatshirt, but it’s something. The other potential lead could be the pig’s head itself. There aren’t too many places to buy one intact like that, and they may be able to—”

“Why would someone do this to me?” he interjected.

She paused as he faced her fully. She’d never seen his expression so open, his dark eyes soft and rounded, brow furrowed in confusion. She hadn’t realized his icy exterior protected such a sensitive core, and it took everything she had not to wrap comforting arms around his shoulders.

She bit her lower lip. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not from the Middle East. I don’t speak Arabic. I’m barely religious. Not that any of those things would justify the crime, but in my case, social media is full of my haram transgressions. Drinking, tattoos, not fasting for Ramadan. I’m a legal immigrant, I’m not politically active, I don’t even have a beard. I’m fucking Swedish,” he finished emphatically.

“I know,” she soothed. “Hatred isn’t rational.”

“I get that, but surely it’s at least pragmatic. If I move back to Europe, what changes? My departure wouldn’t topple any secret terror cells, or have radical Muslims throwing their Qur’ans into the Mississippi.” He dug his fingers into his thighs.

“They’re probably too scared to go after anyone who might actually fight back,” she offered.

“What, like all those Muslims who are real terrorists? The ones named Ahmed, wearing taqiyahs.” He rolled his eyes.

“Actually, yes. You and I know those things don’t make someone a terrorist, but whoever was in your house tonight doesn’t. He or she probably thinks Arabic-speaking men with beards have explosives in their basements. Which is why they chose to come here instead.” She shrugged. “Cowardice, pure and simple.”

“I’m not convinced breaking into someone’s house is the act of a fearful person.”

“You’d be surprised what fear can make people do.”

The detective she’d spoken to made his way over and perched on the edge of the steel-and-glass coffee table in front of the couch. The table creaked under the detective’s weight and she glanced at Oz, whose jaw was tight with obvious displeasure.

“We’ve got everything we’re going to get from the scene,” the detective explained. “We’ll follow up on a couple of leads and let you know if we find anything.”

“Are you treating this as a hate crime?” Kate asked.

“The state of Georgia doesn’t have hate-crime laws, but I assure you we’re taking this seriously.” He hauled himself to his feet. “You’ve both got my number. Give me a shout anytime.”

Oz gave no indication of movement, so Kate took it upon herself to walk the detective to the front door and see him out. The photographers had moved on so she waved away the Peak Tactical team. With the house finally empty of police personnel she shut the door, locked it, and pressed the button to switch on the alarm system.

When she turned Oz stood by the fireplace, lifting a clear, rectangular hunk of plastic with what looked like a medal encased inside.

“They didn’t take this,” he murmured when she joined him. “CSL Young Player of the Year. This is worth a lot of money.”

“The police said the intruder didn’t take anything of value.”

“So they were motivated purely by bigotry, not greed. Is that good or bad?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied honestly.

As he replaced the award on the mantel she noticed his hand trembling, and lightly put steadying fingers to his elbow. “Oz, you’re shaking. Do you want to sit down?”

“Low blood sugar. Normally I eat right after a match. Tonight there’s been a delay, for obvious reasons.”

“I’ll make you something. What do you want?”

He shook his head. “It’s late. Go home. I’ll be fine.”

He gave her an out. She should take it. She should ignore the strange comfort of his presence, and her secret elation that he was still speaking to her after their acrimonious game of pool. She should keep this professional, remind him to turn on the motion-sensor beams after she left and give him a follow-up call tomorrow.

She looked at the front door, then past Oz, in the opposite direction toward the kitchen. The wide-open sight lines in the house meant she got a full view of the pig’s blood still smeared across the cabinets and floor, and the outlines of swastikas drying on the granite countertop.

She should leave. But she couldn’t leave him to this.

“Why don’t you chill out in the study? I’ll bring something up to you.”

Frowning, he followed her line of vision into the kitchen.

He sighed, and it was so bone-deeply weary that Kate wished she could tighten her arms around him and shove all that oxygen back inside until he perked back to his usual, arrogant, contrary self.

“You don’t need to stay here and clean that,” he told her quietly. “I’ll get what I need from the cupboards and call my housekeeper in the morning.”

“Let me do it. I owe you.”

“For what?”

“Friday night. I know I won fair and square, but I could’ve been a little more gracious about it.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Beating me at pool doesn’t oblige you to clean hate symbols drawn in blood.”

“No, it doesn’t. Which is why you should probably take advantage of my offer before I realize that.”

His smile was faint, but it was the first one she’d seen all evening.

“Let’s do it together. I’m very particular about which cleaning products are used on which surfaces.”

“Of course you are.” She rolled her eyes playfully as they moved into the kitchen.

The metallic stench of blood was almost as offensive as the swastikas. Drips and smears stained most of the beautiful space.

Oz reached into a high cupboard and retrieved a series of cleaning products—all unfamiliar eco-friendly brands and probably twice the price of what she used at home. He launched into an explanation of what was to be used where and why, but after a few seconds she held up a palm to silence him.

“Give me a bottle, a cloth, and point me toward something. In the meantime I want you to eat.”

“Okay,” he agreed. With unprecedented obedience he passed her a microfiber cloth and a purple bottle for the counters, then found a spoon and a jar of peanut butter and settled onto a stool at the island.

Silence hushed the massive house. She sprayed and scrubbed and rinsed and sprayed again, enjoying the way the silvery flecks in the granite sparkled as they picked up the light.

If Oz had any criticism of her technique he kept it to himself, although his eyes never left her. The weight of his gaze grew heavier until she was hyperaware of every movement she made, every slight twist or turn. Her decidedly unsexy cotton T-shirt felt like silk as it shifted against her skin, and her nipples hardened inside her fraying sports bra.

She pressed her back teeth together. A man was watching her clean bloody swastikas off his kitchen counter. There had to be something wrong with her if she was getting aroused.

She stole a glance at Oz. His eyes were charred chunks of wood in a roaring fire—coal-black and dangerously hot. He sucked on the spoon in his mouth, ran his tongue over the back of it, dropped it with a clatter into the empty jar.

Then he was on his feet, snatching up a cloth and a bottle. “I’ll help you.”

They scrubbed in silence for a while, the kitchen quiet except for squeaks and squirts and the occasional splash. Oz dug out a mop and started on the floor, and she reached above her head to remove splatters from the top of the fridge.

She tried to think of an excuse to indulge her curiosity and open the cabinets or the freezer, wondering what their contents would reveal about this man that their sterile, uncluttered exteriors didn’t. Maybe everything was stacked in haphazard piles, half of it expired, most of it unused. Or maybe it was all arranged with the oldest purchases at the front, labels facing outward, alphabetically ordered by brand name.

Maybe most of the cupboards were empty. Maybe he followed one of those crazy celebrity diets and ate only raw, organic fruit and vegetables fresh out of the farmer’s field.

Or maybe he went completely the other way. Maybe he hated cooking but burned so many calories he needed to take in whatever he could, so stocked up on pasta, bread, cheese, and cookies.

She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye, her fingers itching to tug open the refrigerator door. He appeared to be deeply focused on wringing out the mop. Would he notice if she took a quick peek? Would he care? His brow furrowed in concentration. What was he thinking about?

He raised his gaze to meet hers with such sudden intention she wondered if he’d read her mind.

“Why did you leave the army?”

She blinked, expecting a more serious, probing question. “My contract ended and I decided it was a good time to get out. I’d been in for eight years. It was time to make some real money.”

“So you took the job in Saudi Arabia.”

“The pay was amazing. I pretty much lived off my housing allowance and sent the rest home. My sister and my niece live with my mom, who’s usually one rude hand gesture away from losing whatever part-time retail gig she’s got. Long story short, in six months I paid off my sister’s car, bought my mom a dishwasher and set up a semester of afterschool tutoring for my niece.”

He stowed the mop in a tall cabinet, then leaned against the wall. “But Saudi Arabia was too terrible to stick it out for more than a year, even with the money?”

She paused, considering whether or not to tell him the full story.

“I didn’t quit my job there. I was fired.”

“Really. Why?” He resumed his seat at the kitchen island.

She wrung out her cloth and draped it over the edge of the sink, quickly surveying the kitchen to see what else needed to be cleaned. It was spotless, but she picked up a dry cloth and started buffing the faucet.

“The woman I was supposed to protect, the oil executive’s wife, was attacked.”

Her back was turned, but she read Oz’s silence as his request for her to go on. “The residential compound was out in the desert, but there was a town nearby—a city, really. Maybe a hundred thousand people. For the most part the Americans stayed in the compound, but occasionally my client went into the city to shop, go to a restaurant, attend a doctor’s appointment, and I went with her. We wore abayas and headscarves and spent most of our time in a chauffeured car, but every so often we walked from one place to another.”

She sucked in a breath, smelling the exhaust fumes, hearing the cacophony of SUV engines and beeping horns, blinking away the sand constantly swirling through the air.

“Usually Saudis give foreigners a pass,” she explained, turning to prop her hip on the island. “As long as you’re making an effort to respect the laws, the muttaween—the religious police—don’t give you any hassle. That day we were standing outside a shopping mall, waiting for the driver to come around the block and pick us up. We were both covered from head to toe, holding bags from the shops we’d visited. This guy came up to us and started shouting in Arabic, gesturing to the bags. Then another one joined him, and another, and another. It was a crazy, random mob scene, and we were in the middle, unable to understand what we’d done.”

She closed her eyes, briefly revisiting the vivid memory she still hoped might fade. Her private-security skills put to the test for the first time and failing as, unarmed, off-guard, she was no match for the ten men crowding around them.

“I tried to move in front of her,” she continued, opening her eyes but not able to look at Oz. “I tried to shove her out of the way, but it didn’t work. One of the men pushed her down—maybe accidentally, it was hard to tell—and she cut her cheek open on the concrete.”

Kate ran her finger across her cheekbone to illustrate the damage. Oz winced.

“The blood freaked the men out, I guess. They didn’t want to be responsible for damaging another man’s property. They scattered as quickly as they gathered, just in time for the driver to arrive.”

“Did you figure out why they were so angry?”

“The driver guessed it was the picture of a woman on the outside of one of the bags. It had been Photoshopped to cover her cleavage, like everything is there, but you could still see her neck and part of her shoulders.” She shrugged. “My client needed stitches and a plastic surgeon to fix the scar, and I was thanked for my service and relieved of employment.”

She was pleased with her ability to recount the incident with barely any hint of the devastation and deep-seated worthlessness that underpinned that experience. She wasn’t over any of it—not the event, not being fired, not her failure to do her job and protect her client.

But she sounded like she was. A step in the right direction, at least.

Oz whistled. “Tough.”

“It was probably for the best. I hated the job, but would’ve struggled to convince myself to quit considering the salary.” She smiled bitterly. “I have a tendency to be a victim of—What do you call it? Inactivity? When just nothing happens.”

“Inertia?”

She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. Inertia. Sums me up in a single word.”

“That’s not the word I would choose.”

She glanced at him sharply but he was on his feet again, his expression closed and inscrutable. He swept up the few bottles of cleaning fluids on the counter and took the cloth from her hand, then stowed everything underneath the sink.

“Thanks for your help tonight. Cleaning up pig’s blood is definitely beneath your pay grade.”

She waved off his comment. “The least I could do. If anything, I should apologize for going off on a tangent about getting fired.”

“No, that was interesting. Sometimes my life is so immaculate it borders on sterile. It’s good to be reminded that not everyone’s world is quite as tidy.”

“I think most people would trade.”

“I know.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not one of those woe-is-me rich people. I was born lucky. Stable, well-educated parents, natural athletic talent, and the right coaches and mentors to develop it. The greatest trauma I ever endured was getting five stitches after I cut my shin on a diving board in Turkey.”

“Until tonight.”

“Until tonight,” he echoed, his tone darkening. Kate instantly regretted her words, which lowered the mood they’d only just managed to lift.

“I should go.” She ducked around him to leave the kitchen, heading for the bag she’d tossed on his dining-room table.

He followed, watching her levelly as she dug through the clutter to produce her car keys. “You can stay if you want.”

“Why would I want that?”

She asked the question in jest, but Oz’s response was dead serious. “To protect me. In case they come back.”

She put down her bag. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I defer to your professional judgment.”

She narrowed her eyes, studying his expression and examining his tone for any clue to his intent. Was he making fun of her? Testing her?

Either way, it didn’t matter. They couldn’t do this. She could lose her job to those big, searching eyes. She could lose her whole self.

“I think you’ll be fine,” she decided. “Turn on the alarm and the beams. The local tactical team will respond in less than three minutes if anything happens.”

He inclined his head, accepting her verdict. She slung her bag over her shoulder.

He followed her to the door and reached around her to open it.

She paused in the doorway, stupidly reluctant to leave, to walk away from this brief, trusting period in which she’d felt so comfortable. Like she was in exactly the right place. “Will you call someone to stay with you tonight? Because I can wait.”

He shook his head. “Like you said, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” She glanced at the hushed darkness beyond the front lawn, the light from the doorway casting a slanted rectangle on the porch. “The other night in the bar, playing pool, maybe I—”

“You won.”

“I know, but—”

“But nothing. It’s done. We’ve moved on.”

She shifted her weight. “We have?”

He said nothing, fixing her with that unblinking, inscrutable stare that seemed to be his default. Was this poker face the key to his success on the pitch? The fans did call him the Wizard, so maybe—

His lips were on hers, without warning, without so much as a glance at her mouth or angling of his chin to lessen the surprise. She started, then froze.

And then relaxed. Exactly the right place.

This kiss was different from its predecessor. Sincerity replaced coy flirtation; impulse and honesty guided the pace. As she flattened her palm against his chest she thought she’d learned more about Oz in the last ten seconds than in all the time she’d known him.

He raised his fingers to her cheek and her whole body eased, as if someone cut a string that was holding her upright. His arm came around her waist as she pushed against him, the pressure of his mouth increasing to complement the growing softness of her posture.

She didn’t know why she was able to let go of her anxieties and enjoy this kiss, as opposed to the one in Boise. Because of the comforting backdrop of crickets chirping in the early-summer evening? The quiet camaraderie between them as they’d cleaned the kitchen? The way the vast house and empty street made it feel like they might be the only two people left in Atlanta.

She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She kissed Oz like the end was nigh, like this was her last chance. Like she’d never heard of consequences.

Except she had. And when he withdrew gently, she could think of nothing else.

“Go,” he urged, rough-voiced. “Before I do something stupid.”

Like sleep with a redneck security contractor who was fired from her last job, and might very well get fired from her current one with this kind of behavior. “Sure. I get it.”

“You don’t.” He squeezed her arm above the elbow. “But you will. Just not tonight.”

She frowned, but she was too tired and overwhelmed and still reeling from their kiss to bother trying to figure him out.

Instead, she jangled her car keys and stepped backward onto the porch. “We’ll talk soon.”

He nodded.

“Put the alarm on,” she reminded him, then turned to make her way to her car. The long rectangle of light on the grass told her he still watched from the doorway, and she marveled that her feet touched the ground when she felt lighter than air.