I lean toward her, feeling her quickening breath warm my chest where her eyes are locked, not willing to lift to meet mine. She places one fingertip against my sternum, pushing me back. I lean into her touch for a split second, wishing for more.

“You feel this. I know you do.” I catch her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips to lay a soft kiss to her fingertip. Her focus stays locked on her finger against my lips. Good. I want her to hear this, see it, feel it. “I understand that you’re scared. But I’m not.”

For such a gentle touch, the kiss feels intimate, a sign of things to come, especially when she slowly traces my lower lip with that fingertip.

But her doubts rise to the surface. If they faded at all.

“That’s because you have all this goodness in you, and happiness around you, and I only have this.” Freeing her hand, she gestures to the morgue and death all around her before dropping her eyes.

I don’t let her do that and lift her chin and eyes to meet mine, cupping her face. “That’s not all you have. You have goodness in you too. Let me show you.”

For a moment, I can see her waver, her eyes searching mine for something.

A joke?

Does she think I’m one of these assholes who tease her incessantly?

Or a curse?

She told me her history, and she’s not responsible for any of it, though she doesn’t believe that. Bad luck, accidents, and a life long-lived . . . those are her true demons.

I lean forward slowly, making my intention clear as my gaze drops to her lips. She licks them in preparation, a sigh of desire escaping. There’s a scant inch between us when she backs away suddenly, her hip bumping into the table behind her, and it rolls away.

It knocks her off balance, and she stumbles, falling with little grace to her butt on the floor. Her legs are askew, her mouth opens in an O of surprise, and her hands splay wide behind her. “Oh!” she says, stunned before she reaches for her bruised backside. “Ow!”

“Shit! Let me help you up.” I reach for her hands, pulling her up.

She laughs self-consciously, still rubbing at her right butt cheek. “At least no one died this time.”

I give her a wry look. “Too soon for my car crash joke, but not your death ones?”

The comment gets me a rewarding eye roll.

“Whatever. Come on, I’ll go get the Horne file,” she says, taking a step. But as she does, her left leg doesn’t bear her weight and she cries out, half-collapsing again.

This time, to my slight credit, I catch her. “What’s wrong?”

“My ankle. I think I twisted it.”