“Are you even listening to me? I think something is happening” – I lowered my voice even further – “at Mr. Vandenberg’s store.”

Frustrated, he finally asked, “What?”

“There are men over there. They have plasma cutters.”

His eyes widened, mocking me. “Not plasma cutters.”

“And today, Mr. Vandenberg seemed really upset. Like something was wrong.”

“Of course something was wrong. His wife took the kids and left him. It’s all over town.”

Holy shit, that gossip chick worked fast. I wasn’t going to argue with him. His mind was made up, and all he cared about was my conversation with Garrett.

“Where do you know him from? Work?”

I brightened. “Yes. I deliver lunch to him sometimes. And today, he just seemed —”

“Not Vandenberg,” he said, his tone as glisteningly sharp as a chef’s knife. “That guy. Swopes.” I paused, taking note of the vehemence in his voice. And the fact that he called him Swopes instead of Garrett, a name I hadn’t used. Had he checked up on Garrett? Why would he do that? Either way, my patience had pretty much dissipated.

“You know what? I’m going to help close up. Maybe you should go home.”

He went to grab my arm, and I stepped out of his reach.

“This is over,” I whispered, throwing in a little vehemence of my own.

“You’re upset,” he said, suddenly trying to defuse the situation himself.

“That you broke into my apartment? That you order me around? That you won’t take ‘I just want to be friends’ seriously? Noooo,” I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Are you really saying we’re over?”

“Ian, we never began.”

“I’ll give you some time to think about it.”

I wanted to throw my arms up in exasperation. “I don’t need time, Ian. I need you to leave.”

“You don’t know what you need.”

This time the anger that flared around me was my own. I felt a flash of heat wash over me as he continued.

“I was there for you when you had no one.”

“And I’m grateful, Ian, but you’re a cop. It was your job. It doesn’t mean I owe you my life.”

His scowl glittered hot. “Doesn’t it?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He pushed away from me, gave Garrett one last glare for good measure, then strode into the café, slamming the door behind him.

“So,” Garrett said, “things are good between you two? You seem really happy.”

“Thank you for not trying to stand up for me.” And getting yourself arrested in the process.

“Somehow I doubt you needed my help.”

What a sweet thing to say.

“Crazy chicks are usually pretty tough.”

Or not.

“What are you going to do about him?”

“Ian? What do you mean?”

“You don’t actually think that’s the end of it?”

“Well, yeah, kind of. I mean, I just told him it was.”

“Because that works so well with psychopaths.”

He had a point. I’d received conflicting vibes from him since Day One. He was a habitual liar, had terrible anger issues, and wore the same shirt for days at a time. He definitely had mental issues. Then again, I was standing in a dark alley with someone I hardly knew. I turned away from him, exasperated, and saw a kid standing at the end of the alley.

“Is that Osh?” I asked Garrett.

The kid stood with his hands in his pockets, his breaths fogging around him, so it was hard to see his face, but how many teens wore top hats? He glanced over his shoulder toward us, then just as quickly turned back to the street.

“Looks like it,” he said.

A car pulled up then. Osh leaned over and spoke to the driver before it pulled away again.

Alarmed, I asked, “Is he selling drugs?”

“Nah, I think he’s a male prostitute.”

I gasped. Placed a hand over my heart. He was so young. And absolutely stunning. He had his whole life ahead of him. Why?

“It’s okay,” Garrett said. “He’s been a whore for a long time.”

My heart broke until I realized he was laughing softly.

I glared at him. “Are you teasing me?”

“Not at all. He’s a manwhore. Ask him.”

After crossing my arms, I said, “He’s just a baby.”

“Baby, my ass.”

“How well do you know him?”

“I just met him today.”

“Fine, I give up. I’m heading in to eat. You hungry?”

Before he answered, he looked down the street to where Osh stood. In my peripheral vision I saw Osh tip his hat like a fine gentleman, then walk away.

“I better not,” Garrett said. “I have some work to do.”

“Your loss,” I teased, but he cast me a serious expression.

“It is indeed.”

9

Without coffee, I’m just a really tall two-year-old.

—T-SHIRT

When I walked back into the café, the warm café, Shayla was just placing the plates on our table. Or, well, my table, since Ian had been invited to leave.

She glanced up nervously. “Um, your date…”

“Left,” I finished for her. “I asked him to.”

“Oh, perfect, then.”

It was about that time I noticed where all the heat originated. Reyes sat at a table a few feet away, studying the menu. I slowed my pace, suddenly aware of every hair out of place. I could only hope my lips hadn’t turned blue again.

I scooted into my booth as Shayla brought me some extra salsa – she knew me so well – her MedicAlert bracelet sparkling in the fluorescent light.

“Dang, girl,” I said, admiring it. “You blinged-out your medical bracelet. That’s cool.”

She laughed and shook it so that the fake diamonds caught as much light as possible. “My dad did it for me.”

“He sounds fantastic.”

“He is,” she said, before walking off.

I glanced at Reyes periodically as I ate, a man I could never have and yet craved so powerfully, it scared me.

He was wearing the shirt he’d had on earlier – only buttoned up – and no jacket. That fact caused a soft flood of alarm. Did he lie to me when he said he had another? No way was I taking his only jacket.

I wiped my hands, then walked over to his table. I’d left the motel rather abruptly and felt I owed him an apology. At least, that was the excuse I was going to give for my intrusion.

He’d splashed on a hint of very expensive cologne, and it wafted toward me as I got closer. Even though he only wore the button-down, he didn’t seemed chilled at all. In fact, he’d rolled up the sleeves. I was beginning to realize he was his own furnace. Generated his own heat.

He watched me walk up. Had been watching me from the moment I left my booth, his gaze shimmering beneath the shadow of his lashes.

When I stopped in front of him, he raised his head. “Ms. Doerr,” he said, making the name sound like a mixed drink.

“Mr. Farrow. I wanted to apologize for my —”