She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. He smelled good, like male body heat and a trace of cologne, or aftershave, or some kind of masculine soap. His arms around her were solid and comforting, and she couldn’t believe she was getting all weepy in front of him. She was supposed to be a tough-as-nails trial lawyer.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt.

“Why?”

“I’m not like this.”

“What?”

She sighed. “Weepy.” She swiped at her cheeks as he eased back.

He stared down at her, his face shadowed in the dim light. Her heart started to thud, and her stomach tightened—but not from fear now. Attraction.

His gaze dropped to her mouth.

A low buzz startled her, and she jerked back.

Muttering a curse, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked a text message.

“Work.” He looked at her. “I have to go.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

He was a homicide detective on call. Of course he had to go. But he didn’t move. Instead, he stood there, gazing down at her with those dark eyes.

He bent and kissed the top of her head, sending a flurry of sparks through her.

“Will you be okay tonight?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

She turned and led him back inside and to the front door, dismayed by all the memories of the day swirling through her mind—her routine morning, her drive out to the lake, the attack at her office.

Brandon on her patio, pulling her into his arms.

She opened the front door for him.

“Be sure to—”

“I know. I’ll set it,” she said.

He looked down at her. Before she could lose her nerve, she stood up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you for coming by,” she said.

Regret flickered in his eyes. Because he had to leave? She sure as hell hoped so.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Antonio pulled into a reserved space in front of the station and hung their parking pass from the rearview mirror.

“Yo. Food truck,” he said. “Perfect timing.”

Brandon scowled. Nothing about this morning had been perfect, starting with being called out of bed at four-fucking-thirty to respond to a convenience store holdup on the east side. Two people shot—including the elderly clerk—as the perpetrator fled the scene with thirty-six dollars and a carton of smokes.

Thirty-six dollars.

And now an elderly veteran was in the ICU with a punctured lung.

The kid who shot him was in the hospital, too, after being tracked down through a tip. And why the kid had decided to mess with a store clerk whose arms were covered in military tats and was practically guaranteed to have a gun behind the counter, Brandon would never know.

Another unanswered question from his shitty morning.

Brandon got out of the car, and Antonio was already digging out his wallet.

“You coming?” Antonio asked.

“No.”

“Sure? Two-for-one Fridays, bro.”

“I’m not hungry.”