“I haven’t given you a thought.” She blew the hair out of her eyes. “Hardly.”

“Me either.” He dumped the shards into the trash, replaced the broom and dustpan. “How about some coffee?”

“Sure.” Maybe that would help her regain her normal composure. As he poured, she caught a whiff of him over the homey morning aroma. “You smell like a locker room.”

“Sorry. I was at the gym.” When he handed her the coffee, she sat where she was and sipped. Half a cup later, she was able to take her first clear-eyed look at him.

He looked fabulous. Rough and sweaty and ready for action. The thick tangle of hair was falling over a faded gray sweatband. His face was unshaven, his NYPD T-shirt was ripped and darkened in a vee down the chest, his sweatpants were loose and frayed at the cuffs. When she lifted her gaze back to his, he smiled.

“Good morning, McNee.”

“Good morning.”

He skimmed a finger over her thigh. She was sensitive there, he noted. He could tell by the way her eyes darkened and the pulse in her throat picked up the beat. “I’m not apologizing this time.”

“You should be.”

“No. I’m right about this.” He put a finger over her lips before she could speak. “Trust me. I’m a cop.”

He could have all but seduced her in her own kitchen before her eyes were even open, but she had a point to make. Closing a hand over his wrist, she drew his hand away. “My personal decisions, whether they have to do with my professional or my private life, are just that. Personal. I’ve been making those decisions, right or wrong, for a long time. I don’t intend to stop now.”

“I’m not going to see you hurt.”

“That’s very sweet, Alexi.” Softening a bit, she brushed a hand through his hair. “I don’t intend to be hurt.”

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with. Oh, you think you do,” he continued, recognizing the look in her eyes. “But all you know is the surface. There are things that go on in the streets, every day, every night, that you have no conception of. You never will.”

She couldn’t argue, not with what she saw in his face. “Maybe not. I don’t see what you see, or know what you know. Maybe I don’t want to. My friendship with Rosalie—”

“Friendship?”

“Yes.” The expression on her face dared him to contradict her. “I feel something for her—about her.” With a helpless gesture, Bess set her cup aside. “I can’t possibly explain it to you, Alexi. You’re not a woman. I can help her. Don’t tell me it’s a fairy tale to believe I can save her from the streets and what she’s chosen to be. I’ve gotten that advice already.”

“From someone with at least half a brain,” he surmised. “I had no idea this had gotten so out of hand. You said you wanted to talk to her for background stuff for your story.”