So who was the love of his life? And how did Matty’s story—with Mark picking him up in a bar, manipulating him, and blackmailing him—fit in with the rest of Mark’s history? Hell, how did blackmail fit into any of Mark’s story?

North stood up so suddenly that the casters on his chair chirped across the uneven boards. He stretched. His shirt rode up, exposing an inch of heavily muscled torso. And then, of course, he tugged the shirt down and caught Shaw’s eye.

“Pervert.”

“I was trying to figure out if that stain on your ass was from wet cement or from drywall.”

“It’s from a quiche Tuck was making. I sat on the counter and smashed the crust. And you shouldn’t be staring at my ass; you’re a taken man, now.”

Shaw’s hand was suddenly moving much faster, flying blindly across the page as he turned his attention back to the computer.

“I’m going to check out Mark’s last place of employment,” North said with another long stretch; Shaw could feel his eyes like the jaws of a trap.

“Oh boy. Sexy gym bunny?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sexy insurance adjuster?”

“Not this time.”

“Sexy corporate fraud investigator?”

“I had to lend someone my clipboard.”

“So that leaves sexy UPS guy.”

“I have other ideas.”

“Oh, sure. You have sexy plumber. And sexy HVAC repairman. And sexy guy who lost his dog. And sexy burrito roller.”

North burst out laughing at the last one. “That was one time.” Then, trying to make his expression stern, he said, “They’re not all sexy.”

“Sexy burrito roller literally licked refried beans off his finger trying to seduce that dentist we were following.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, and you caused a grade-four food hazard.”

“Whatever. Do you have a box I can use?”

“Try again.”

“Shaw.”

“You know what I want to hear.”

“This is so fucking juvenile. Just give me a box so I can get some work done.”

“Indulge me.”

“This is a waste of time.”

“We would have been done already except you’re being totally lame about this.”

North grimaced. Then he undid the top two buttons on his shirt. Shaw made a rolling gesture with his finger, and North undid two more. He peeled back the placket to expose the hard planes of his chest, ran a finger through his messy thatch of blond hair, and dropped his voice to say, “Excuse me, sir. I believe you have a package for me.”

“That was the worst Southie accent I’ve ever heard.”

“Give me a fucking box, Shaw,” North snapped, a blush glowing in his fair cheeks and he did up the buttons again.

“Oh, I don’t have any. Ask Pari.”

“You’re going to hell.”

After a screeching bout with Pari, North left, and Shaw could see him through the front window with a box under his arm. The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Shaw kept trying to dig something up, but he found nothing. And by the time North called, Shaw had reached a decision.