Chapter 13: Chapter Twelve

“Holy shit!” Anita cried and leapt backward four feet. Hot tears prickled at the backs of her eyes.

There on the doorstep of the studio was a dead bird, its wings splayed at an odd angle and its little head twisted off its body.

“Poor little robin.” Anita extended a hand toward it but then recoiled. It was clearly dead. A headless bird could not come back to life, and though she was a more than fair seamstress, this was beyond her capacity. It still hurt her soul, though.

“Hey!” she heard Patrick call.

The day had dawned a warm spring morning, and Patrick had clearly taken advantage of the weather by walking from his apartment. His thin leather jacket casually accented his musculature. Not a helpful line of thought. Spending so much time together lately had clearly addled her brain.

He smiled when he saw her but then followed her gaze.

“Holy shit, is that a robin?”

“I think so.” She shivered. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve seen birds hit the window and get stunned before, but that doesn’t rip their heads off.” She needed to find a shoe box and an old washcloth. Bird funerals had been her specialty at one point.

“I guess we should clean it up?” Patrick’s voice shook.

Anita swallowed her dread. Her father, the great Dr. Goodman, would be so proud she was facing her blood phobia. “I’ll go get a bag and some gloves.”

“Let me do it.”

She sighed in relief, but it was short-lived. He hesitated at the entrance to the studio, then turned back to her. “Actually, did you take pictures yet?”

“Ew, of course not. I’m not going to take a picture of a poor dead bird.” Anita couldn’t stop staring at the thick rope of blood and gristle where the bird’s head ought to be. No creature deserved that.

“It’s for John.” Patrick took out his phone and knelt beside the body. “He said he needed evidence.”

Evidence. Right. She should program her phone to remind herself to be smart. Except she still was not quite sure how to set reminders on her phone. “You think it’s related to the other stuff?”

“It’s too weird not to be related.” He finished snapping the photos and texted them with a loud whoosh. “Did you see anyone outside the studio this morning?” he asked, stowing the phone in his back pocket. Which meant she looked at his back pocket and what it covered, and oh seriously, she needed to pull herself together. She was not turned on by the death of an innocent. Patrick looked at her expectantly. “What about your security cameras?”

Riiiiiiiight. She shook her head and glanced up at the bare edges of the door frame. “I don’t have security cameras. It’s a dance studio in Lewis. If someone really wants to take my water dispenser, I say have at it.” She made a note to herself to do an internet search for how to install security cameras.

Patrick just shook his head. Great, now everyone was disappointed in her. “Look, I’ll clean this up. You do what you need to do.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s my studio, it’s my dead bird. I will clean it up.”

The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitched upward. “As you wish.”

Anita opened her mouth to retort, but instead Patrick’s phone sounded a too-loud ping. Even she knew how to turn the volume down on a phone. Well, she had put it on vibrate once two years ago and then never figured out how to turn it off. Same difference.

“It’s John,” Patrick said, staring at the text. He chortled once and held the screen up for Anita to see. “He wrote, ‘Gross, put it in a plastic bag, will swing by later.’ ” Patrick shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe this is a lead.”

“You watch too many detective shows.” She sipped at the coffee cup Patrick had left on the check-in desk, but it had gone cold and tasted more than a little bitter. A great start to the day. “Do you want a cup of coffee? I’m going to make a pot. They must have used a different blend at Amore this morning.”

“I can make it if you want to get the body.”

Ugh, right, the body. She was an independent woman. Responsibility sucked. “Great, thanks.”

She heard his footsteps in the apartment above her as she plodded around her studio collecting supplies. Plastic bag here, cleaning gloves there. If I move more slowly than I ever have before, the body will decompose naturally, right?

Shove it down. Repress. Lock the door and throw the key deep into the back of the freezer.

It did not hit her as she scraped the little carcass into the plastic bag. Nor when she pushed all the air out of the bag and pressed the seal closed.

It was only when she smelled the fresh coffee Patrick had prepared.

She ran inside the studio, her head buzzing too loudly to do anything else. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

She curled up underneath the desk in her office, head buried in her hands. The room was too hot, too close. Seriously, could she just get in a deep breath? She wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands, then pulled them away to gaze at the streaks of tears across her skin.

“Anita?”

She couldn’t look at him. Not now. Not like this.

A waft of warmth and pine and mint surrounded her, wrapping her up like a cozy cardigan. “Anita?” he repeated.

He placed one hand across her shoulders, but that was it. She could not hold it in any longer. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her head in the soft fleece of his jacket. She was going to die. No one could survive this, this aching need, this unending want, this loneliness.

But then he wrapped his own arms around her body, holding her close, tilting his nose to the top of her head, and the sobs eased.

He was so close, encompassing her but not stifling. No one had ever held her like this before. Maybe her mother, but no one else. Her blood heated, tingling.

She pulled back from him enough so she could push the heels of her hands against her eyes.

Patrick did not let her go. She found his gaze, dark, flames licking the glint of gold in those heavenly blue eyes. It was too intense, too primal.

She needed to shut this down. She shifted slightly, biting her bottom lip, and Patrick’s gaze dropped to her open mouth.

What was happening? She couldn’t—couldn’t do this. This was Patrick. Patrick. Sweet, funny, caring, sexy AF Patrick.

She wanted him.

God help her, she wanted him.

She brought her gaze to meet his, the smolder in her meeting his fire. Her heart ceased its Wagnerian pounding and fluttered instead, a caged bird flapping to be released.

A rush of images flooded through her, and she pulled herself out of his warm embrace. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.

It was a long few moments before she regained control of her heartbeat, her breath. She really needed to find the air conditioning. Power bill be damned.

At length, she steeled her spine and turned. Patrick still sat on the floor where he had held her. His handsome features were contorted with…confusion? Regret? Anger?

She desperately hoped it was not disappointment. “I’m sorry.” He was her best friend, and that was all she could muster. She squirmed, pulled the sleeves of her well-worn cardigan down over her hands, scrunched the cuffs into her fists.

Patrick would not look at her. Why should he? She was a mess. She had shown her vulnerabilities, and now he would leave. Tears threatened again, but she stifled them. It wasn’t her fault someone had murdered a poor defenseless bird on her stoop. But this was wrong. She could—no, she needed to be better. Stronger.

She sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest. Bit by bit she would reconstruct her armor. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” Good, that sounded better. Less like she was apologizing for shoving him away instead of kissing him senseless.

Now she needed that thought out of her head.

Which was a lot more difficult now that Patrick was looking at her again. He had his hands on his knees, his pose contemplative.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he finally asked, his voice low, almost dangerous, like a sexy growl. It sent a thrill of heat through her again. She bristled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you seriously apologizing for needing a mini breakdown after cleaning up a dead bird?”

Oh, right. Good, he had not been about to kiss me a few minutes before. Great. Perfect. World in order again.

“You should not have had to see that.” Lame, but not quite as lame as a sorry-I-almost-jumped-you apology.

Patrick shook his head and stood to his full height. She loved how tall he was, not dwarfing her but not at eye level. Just the right amount of tilt.

Focus.

“We’re friends.” He hesitated on the last word but reached out and took her hands in his. Friends. Right. Good. Anita inhaled deeply to calm her breath. “Whoever did this is doing it to both of us, right?”

Anita nodded. Was it hot in there again? Maybe it was just something in the way he held her hands, just the way he held her when they danced. Gentle but firm. A leader.

But he was right. Damn it, he was right.

She pushed the sinking feeling from her stomach and pulled her hands from his. “Of course. We need to split up.”

Patrick laughed, and a frisson of—hope? embarrassment?—coursed through her.

“Have you seriously never seen one horror movie? Nature documentary?”

Wait, what? She had once done five pirouettes in a cha-cha routine and had not been this dizzy.

Patrick was still laughing. “Anita. When there is a threat, you do not want to get separated from the pack. Stronger together.”

“Oh.” The word escaped her, thrust from her mouth by a crush of conflicting images and emotions. She and Patrick spending more time together. A lot more time. Close. Dancing, whatnot, close. Close to those eyes, those hands…

She couldn’t breathe again. She managed to find a chair and crumpled into it.

Patrick knelt before her, a huge grin creasing his features. That dimple, damn it, that dimple was definitely going to be the death of her.

“We are masters of our own destiny.” He just looked so boyishly charming, so completely enticing. Her fingers itched to trace the outline of that dimple.

Instead, she nodded.

He clapped his hands together, the noise louder than a gunshot. “Perfect! What’s on our agenda for today?”

She could hardly remember her name, let alone her agenda.

“Umm—” Practice, but there was no way in hell she wanted to think about their rumba routine right now. “I—I still have to get some stuff ready for the party on Saturday night. Oh, and dinner with my parents, but I don’t think I’ll go.” It would take time to research security cameras. And how not to lust after your best friend and dance partner. It was going to be a full night.

Patrick’s eyes widened in apparent horror. “Dinner with Marina and Bill? You can’t not go to that, Anita. I’ll come with you.”

And for the life of her, she suddenly could not think of a reason why not.