Chapter Three

Reed wiped his hands down the front of his jeans. He couldn’t believe his palms were sweating. He wasn’t a guy whose palms sweat.

He’d busted major drug rings. Put away the bad guys and let the good ones have a second chance at life again. He’d survived his dad dying, his fiancée leaving, and the hell that was the New York crime world.

He could handle a cab ride with a gorgeous dancer with hair tumbling over her shoulders and eyes red from crying. He could get that woman out of an unsafe apartment and into his bed and park her there for the night. He could find a clean set of sheets and a pillow and collapse onto his couch.

At least, in theory he could. One could. Someone in his position could hypothetically be able to do all those things and live to tell about it.

But in reality, he, Reed Bishop, was sweating.

“Where do you live?” Talia asked as the cab turned onto the FDR and drove north, the glittering lights of the city all around. Reed loved this view at night, with the buildings, the bridges, the whole city pulsing at all hours. It was a strange sort of beauty, a beauty of hard lines and unnatural stars.

“Washington Heights,” he said, after a pause long enough that Talia was inhaling to repeat the question.

“Yikes,” she said. “I didn’t realize we were heading that far. Guess it’s easy enough for me to get to rehearsal, though. How long have you been there?”

“Eight months.”

She was probably waiting for him to elaborate—something about the neighborhood, the building, where he’d lived before… But he didn’t. There was no need for small talk. And definitely no need to get into his personal life. His mouth had gotten him into enough trouble tonight. The sooner he could get out of this, the better.

“You like it?” she asked.

“No.” He leaned his head back against the seat. The lights pulsed around him. He closed his eyes, and they pulsed behind his lids.

Slouching there with his eyes closed should have been the universal symbol for I’m beat and I don’t want to talk.

But Talia either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.

“What don’t you like about it?”

He gave a shrug without opening his eyes.

It wasn’t like he hated where he lived. He wasn’t even sure why he’d said that.

I’m just tired, he told himself. Out of sorts with this case. It had nothing to do with the woman beside him who wouldn’t shut up. Nothing to do with how much he didn’t want her to know he was the kind of guy who’d once watched his fiancée walk out the door.

“You going to answer me?” she asked.

“You like to talk, don’t you?” He still didn’t open his eyes.

“It’s called a conversation. You may have noticed I’m trying to have one.”

He tilted his head toward her and let one eye open. “I can see that.”

“And?” she asked.

“And I’m not.” He closed his eye again and went back to pretending to sleep.

Case closed.

But not to Talia, apparently. “Listen,” she said, so forcefully that he snapped to attention before remembering he was trying to be an asshole and erect twenty-foot concrete boundaries around himself before this beautiful, prying woman set foot in his apartment.

His one-bedroom apartment, because it was built for one person to inhabit. Alone.

“What?” he asked, in a way that should have signaled he didn’t want the answer.

But Talia kept talking.

“People who are nice, people who invite strangers to come stay with them after breaking into their apartments, sometimes talk to each other. They use things called words to communicate and show that they’re not psycho serial killers. So.” Her eyes bored into him, as piercing and bright as the city lights around them. “Where’d you live before? Why Washington Heights? Tell me something about yourself, since technically, I’m going home with you.”

Was it just him, or was she pressing her lips together to try to not smirk?

Like either of them might get confused about what it meant that she was “going home with him.” He was doing her a favor. Doing his job. Keeping her safe. That was all.

Besides, he didn’t take women home. His night with Talia was all the proof he needed that his life was a shitshow, and it certainly wasn’t safe. Whether or not it was safe for him was secondary. He’d signed up for it—he knew what he was getting into.

But safe for the person who got wrapped up with him? Safe for the one who’d have to do the waiting, the watching, the worrying about whether tonight was the night she’d get the call?

He’d never do that to anyone. He wasn’t kidding himself that anyone would want to do that for him. Lisa was the closest he’d ever come to the real deal—a long relationship, cohabitation, an engagement ring. Talk of marriage, kids, the future. Plans.

And even she’d decided she couldn’t do it. Not with him.

“I’m not nice,” he said.

“What?” He’d been quiet long enough that she must have forgotten what she’d just told him.

“You said people who are nice. You should know that I’m not.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m gathering that.”

She turned her face away from him.

The gesture was so abrupt, so final, so obviously hurt, he suddenly felt bad.

He opened his mouth.

I used to live in Brooklyn. Six blocks from you, actually. With my then-fiancée, Lisa. We’d walk to the park every Sunday with her dog and get bagels and coffee at this place on Vanderbilt—Lisa always got those overpriced cappuccinos, extra foam, shot of vanilla syrup. I’d tease her about it, but I loved seeing her smile. I loved Lisa, and Sundays in the park, and those goddamn cappuccinos.

I moved to Washington Heights to get the fuck out of Brooklyn and never look back.

“Sorry, I’m not in the mood to chat,” he mumbled. It was a relief when the cab pulled in front of his building and their little tête-à-tête was officially over.

You can stay with me tonight. What had he been thinking when he let those words come tumbling out? He could just imagine what Aaron would say—once he got the power of speech back after his jaw slammed to the floor.

Not that Reed was going to tell his brother at all. He didn’t have people over. He certainly didn’t have women over. Not after Lisa left. Not ever again.

He went to work, he ran his cases, he came home. He didn’t get wrapped up in personal stuff. If his heart bled for every sad case he came across, he’d be bone dry. He wouldn’t have anything left to give.

No. If he was going soft, then this wasn’t the job for him.

But how could he tell a crying woman there was no way he could help her? Especially when the whole reason she was crying was because he’d busted in and screwed up her night.

He’d had to make her stop being so upset. This way, he could contain the problem instead of getting who knew how many other people involved.

At least that was what he told himself as he paid the driver and hoisted her suitcases out of the trunk. Had she stuffed a few extra bricks in there, just for fun?

“Second floor,” he told her as he opened the door to the building.

So he wasn’t much of a gentleman, directing her down the hall rather than holding the door and leading the way. But it wasn’t like this was a date. He didn’t go on dates. He didn’t lose his mind to women in distress. He just…needed this night to be over, and this was the best way to make it happen. It had made sense in the moment, even if it didn’t right now.

He stopped outside the door of the apartment and took a breath. “I’m sorry I—”

“—am a grouchy asshole?”

“I was going to say, didn’t have a chance to clean up before my last shift, but sure, that works. Glad I made such a good first impression.” He turned his key in the lock.

“It was certainly memorable,” she said, and he swore he saw a hint of pink creep up her cheeks.

So maybe it wasn’t a good first impression. But it must have been an impression of some sort.

Don’t think about that, he scolded as he followed her in and hit the lights. Don’t think about her body, her hair, the way she’d lunged for him with that book and he’d caught sight of her breast.

Shit. Not thinking was proving to be a surefire way to think too much. When what he needed to focus on was the slight lie he’d just told her.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t had a chance to tidy up before his last shift. He hadn’t had a chance to tidy the apartment in weeks. It felt like all the days had been one endless shift, with barely enough time to come home, shower, open a beer, and crash before he’d finished drinking it.

Plus, it wasn’t like there was anyone to clean up for. No one laid eyes on the place except his brother, smug married bastard that he was—although he’d pressed his suits long before Maggie came into the picture.

There were mugs on the coffee table, old Starbucks paper cups piled by the sink. Along with at least three nights worth of dishes, not to mention papers stacked all over the place, and, for whatever reason, a pair of jeans thrown over the back of the couch. He’d have to make sure there weren’t any boxers on the bathroom floor.

Or in his bedroom, for that matter.

“Wait here,” he told Talia and parked her by the door. “Don’t move.”

“There’s no place to move,” she pointed out, hemmed in by all the crap on the floor.

“Just sit tight, smartass,” he grumbled.

He could have sworn she was laughing at him as he darted into the rooms, picking shit off the floor and shoving it in his bedroom closet, which he closed with a silent prayer that it wouldn’t bust open and have his life come tumbling out.

Whatever. No one was crying right now. Focus on what mattered.

“I’ll get you some clean sheets and a towel,” he said as he came back to the living room. “Uh, make yourself at home.”

“Somehow, I’m pretty sure you don’t mean that,” she said as she went over and perched on the edge of the couch.

Yup, she definitely thought he was an asshole. An asshole who was saving her butt right now, but it wasn’t like he was being Prince Charming about it.

What could he say? I’m married to my job and my fiancée left me because my work is too dangerous and I don’t have people over and it’s freaking me out just to see you sitting there? Like that would help in the first-impressions department. He’d rather be thought an asshole than straight-up weird.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

“A new apartment, a new bank account so I can get said apartment, and a Xanax. Wait.” She bolted upright. “I was kidding about the pill thing, I seriously don’t—”

“If you have one, fork it over,” he said, holding out his hand. “I want to sleep like I’m dead.”

She laughed.

Shit, she laughed. A sudden, bright sound cascading through the apartment. It sounded…nice.

Come on, Reed. Don’t go thinking about how her laugh sounds nice.

“I promise I’d share if I had one.” She sank deeper into the couch and let her head roll back, closing her eyes. “You’re not all bad,” she said. “For an asshole. I could fall asleep right here.”

He shook his head. “Bedroom.”

“The couch is fine.”

“That couch is a piece of shit and you know it. Come on, you have things to do tomorrow. Get an actual night’s sleep and take the bed.”

He went into his room and grabbed a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, a towel, and an extra sheet and pillow.

“Get off my couch,” he said when he came back and she still hadn’t moved.

She snorted. “What a gentleman.”

But she got up, grabbed her bag, and stalked off to his bedroom.

Good.

The door to his bedroom closed, louder than was strictly necessary, and he sank down into the couch. He could still picture her eyes. Those piercing eyes. They needed to stop looking at him, like they could see something there.

And her mouth. The shape of her lips, always talking. Yammering away at him in the car. Giving him that smartass smirk like she knew he had a badge and didn’t much give a shit.

God, he was tired.

And wired.

And—

Jesus, how was that even possible? Now?

Tired, wired, and…hard.

Not like he’d take care of it on the couch when the cause of his current frustrations—and his current erection—was right inside his bedroom. Probably stripping off her clothes, putting that fucking mind-numbing peach lacy thing on, and crawling into his bed…

Stop thinking, Bishop.

He threw a sheet down, punched the pillow a few times, and spread his enormous body over the not-enormous couch. Talia was right. It was stupid for him to sleep out here when he barely fit.

But he rolled over, closed his eyes, and willed himself to stop being a horny bastard and get to sleep.

He couldn’t wait for this night to be over.

He couldn’t wait for this gorgeous, insufferable woman to be gone.