My independence was slipping away from me every second the stranger became something more. Thoughts of reporting my every move to Jackson flipped like television channels in my mind. I hadn’t transferred thousands of miles away to be chained to another relationship.

I pressed my lips together. “I’m”—Do it. Do it, or you’ll just kick yourself later.—“emotionally unavailable.”

Thomas nodded, stood up, and then walked into the living room to dress in silence. He stood in the doorway of my bedroom with his shoes in one hand, his keys in the other, his tie hanging askew from his neck. I tried not to stare, but I did, so I could study every inch of him to remember and fantasize over for the rest of my life.

He looked down and then chuckled, judgment still absent from his expression. “Thanks for a great and unexpected end to a shitty Monday.” He began to turn around.

I pulled the blanket across me and sat up. “It’s not you. You were great.”

He turned back to face me, a smirk on his shadowed face. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not walking out of here, doubting myself. You gave me fair warning. I wasn’t expecting anything more.”

“If you wait a second, I’ll walk you out.”

“I know the way. This is my building. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

My cheeks paled. “You live in this building?”

He peered up at the ceiling. “Just above you.”

I pointed up. “The next floor up, you mean?”

“Yes, but,” he said with a sheepish grin, “my place is right above yours. But I’m rarely home.”

I swallowed, horrified. So much for a strings-free one-night stand. I began nibbling at my thumbnail, trying to think of what to say next. “Okay…well, I guess good night then?”

Thomas flashed an arrogant, seductive smile. “Night.”

Chapter Two

DRINKING AWAY JACKSON’S GUILT TRIP the night before my first day in the San Diego field office proved not to be the most intelligent thing I’d done.

I arrived with only my vest, and I was given a sidearm, credentials, and a cell phone once I’d checked in. Assigned to Squad Five, I found the only empty desk, vacated by the last agent who hadn’t meshed with the infamous Assistant Special Agent in Charge, who we referred to as the ASAC. I had heard about him all the way in Chicago, but it would take more than a bad temper to scare me away from a chance at a promotion.

Only a few sections of the desk’s surface didn’t have a light film of dust, probably from where his or her computer and belongings had been set. My headphones case sat next to my laptop, and a lack of picture frames or miscellaneous decor looked rather pathetic compared with the other desks in the squad room.