“What the hell is going on? I was giving you a compliment—”

“Because I don’t like to fuck drag queens? Is that a compliment?”

Dark red stained North’s cheekbones. “Can we have this conversation somewhere else? I’m sorry I made you mad. I’m sorry I said anything.”

“No, just tell me. Who’s my type?” And without even knowing it, Shaw had made a decision. It was before him, a crystal clear matrix into which North’s answer would be evaluated. If North even hinted at it—blond, beefy, blue-collar, a stud like me, because I know you’ve had a crush on me since college—if anything even remotely like that came out of North’s mouth, this was over. Pity was one thing. Shaw could stand the pity. But pity and humiliation. Pity and North’s . . . forbearance? No. No fucking way.

North still hadn’t said anything.

“Forget it,” Shaw said, brushing past him and heading toward the building.

“Smart.” North caught his arm. “Like you. Bookish. In a cute way. Glasses are a plus. Skinny. They universally like Game of Thrones.”

Shaw’s heart beat in his throat for what felt like an hour. And then he jerked his arm loose and said, “Of course they do. They’ve got to have good taste.”

North opened both hands palm up, and the question was clear: what’s going on?

“Sorry. I just—my head hurts, and Regina got under my skin, and I fucked up that date with Hank and—I don’t know.”

For a moment, North seemed to evaluate this statement. Then he nodded. The snowfall eyes didn’t miss much.

At the door to Mark Sevcik’s building, North gestured for Shaw to go ahead, and Shaw ran his hand down the call buttons. A few voices queried, and Shaw ignored them. He ran his hands down the buttons again. And again. And again.

And then somebody buzzed them in.

They passed the mailroom and took the stairs to the third floor, and they took the hall to the back of the building, and then they stopped. North put one of his hands flat on Shaw’s chest, and the gesture was so unnecessary that it made Shaw smile, and he didn’t like how very much he liked it.

The door to Mark Sevcik’s apartment had been kicked in.

Chapter 9

North examined the door for less than a heartbeat. The splintered wood around the strike plate told most of the story; the boot print on the door itself told the rest. He did, however, notice that the deadbolt hadn’t been set.

Something wasn’t right. Apprehension prickled the back of North’s neck; he didn’t believe when people talked about feeling eyes on them, but he did believe in trusting his gut. And his gut was telling him something about this whole setup, with the door kicked in and waiting for them, wasn’t right.

Easing his hand back from Shaw’s chest—the movement had been reflexive, and North allowed himself to enjoy, in that last instant, the five points of heat under the pads of his fingers—North cut his eyes to Shaw, and Shaw gave a half nod, which was kind of a relief. It was the first normal thing the wiry man had done in the last two days. North had been starting to think Shaw had a screw loose.