“There’s a . . . ninety-eight-percent chance that I can get you in.”

Noah must see the way I’m looking at him because for once, he’s quick to explain.

“I was raised in a household of women. My mother and two of her friends. Very overprotective.”

“What does any of this mean?” I ask.

“I got good at sneaking out of the house.”

“That’s different from sneaking in.”

“What kind of alarm system?”

“He never turns it on.”

Noah smiles. “Then we’re golden.”

I squint at his nonchalance. “So, you’re going to get off this train with me? And we’re going to this empty house? And you’re going to break me inside?”

Noah nods. Smiles.

“This is not the Friday night I had envisioned.”

“Stick with me, kid,” Noah says. And then, he seems to hear his own words, the rapport that they suggest. His cheeks turn pink, and his manner shifts back to stiff. “If I’m going to agree to this, you need to tell me where we’re going, and why.”

I was afraid of this. But I have no idea how to break into Ryan’s place other than a rock through his window, so if I want my heirlooms without a criminal report, Noah Ross might have to call a few shots.

“It’s my ex-fiancé’s brownstone in Georgetown.”

“The guy on the wall? I thought he wasn’t your ex-fiancé.”

The train rattles around a bend in the tracks. It’s gotten dark outside. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with this man.

“He wasn’t,” I say. “Until he was. Anyway, he has some of my stuff with sentimental value, and my ex-future-mother-in-law is going to get rid of it tomorrow.” I look at him. “Unless you break me in.”

“So,” Noah whispers in the dark side yard of Ryan’s brownstone at nine o’clock that night, “how did you two meet?”

“Can we maybe wait until we’re not committing a felony to have this conversation?” I whisper back, standing on my toes to watch his work. He’s got the screwdriver tool of his Swiss Army knife extended and is slowly, carefully prying open the window that leads to Ryan’s laundry room.

We’ve already quite literally cased the joint, jiggling every doorknob and window, even climbing the trellis in Ryan’s back alley hoping to find unlocked upstairs access. Now Noah is just “removing the beading” from the window, which he assures me he can set right on our way out.

“Your call,” he says. “I just thought you were the one concerned with feeding me inspiration. I thought you and the ex might have had a meet-cute.”

“Are you insane?” I whisper. “You don’t get to use my ex-meet-cute. Though, actually, it was a good one.”

“Go on,” Noah says, grunting a little as he levers the pane up from the frame.