CHAPTER 78
The thought burns through me.
I stare down at my phone, knuckles white, jaw tight.
Trying to breathe past it.
Trying not to show it. But it’s there.
In the tension wound tight in my chest.
In the way my hands clench.
In the way my jaw grinds.
Before I do something reckless, before I ruin everything, I shove up from the table. The chair screeches hard enough to make her jump.
I force my voice steady. Clap my hands once.
"Okay," I say, rougher than I mean to. "Let’s get to work."
Because if I don’t... I’ll end up finding Graham.
And then she’ll see exactly what kind of man I really am.
And there won’t be any coming back.
It’s later now, after a whole damn day of obsessing over this evidence.
Dexter begged for treats no less than twenty times—and Paty gave in to every single one like he was a dying Victorian child begging for candy.
Not that I can blame her.
When he’s not acting like a miniature linebacker, body-blocking me from sneaking into her room, the little bastard’s actually a decent dog.
Scrappy. Loyal.
And smug as fuck—which somehow fits right in with her.
For the last hour, we’ve been stretched out on the battered leather couch in our second home, picking at greasy Chinese takeout, drinking warm beers, and swapping dumb stories about murderers like we aren’t actively working a literal nightmare of a case.
It feels... good.
Better than good.
It feels fucking perfect.
Like this could be our life if the universe wasn't an asshole.
Us.
Takeout containers.
Her barefoot, half-tucked into my side without realizing it.
Perfect.
And it’s killing me.
Because I want to reach over, pull her into my lap, and kiss her until she forgets every other man who’s ever existed. I want to push her hair off her shoulders, feel her thighs around me, hear that little sound she makes when she loses herself.
But I can’t.
Not after what she said earlier.
Someone I work with.
And all I can picture is Graham—the smirking bastard circling her like a vulture—waiting for a crack in her defenses.
But what if it wasn’t him?
What if it was me she meant?
I replay every moment—every glance, every hesitation—trying to piece it together like the world's worst crime scene.
When I told her there was someone I was interested in, I practically begged her to walk through that door, to pry, to pick me apart like she does everything else.
She didn’t.
And when she dropped her own comment, I dropped it too—too scared, too fucking wrecked to push.
What if we were both waiting?
I’m so lost in my own head I almost miss it—her phone lighting up beside her.
The text tone of her cell is a sharp little bark.
I glance over, catching the guilt flash across her face like she’s been caught sneaking cookies.
“Did you record Dexter and make him your ringtone?” I ask, grinning.
She bites her lip, trying not to smile, the guilt morphing into something impossibly soft. “Maybe.”
She leans forward, phone tilting toward me—and I catch the name on the screen.
Graham Vexley.
My jaw tightens.
At least it’s not some nauseating shit like Grahamy-Poo or Daddy Graham—because if it was, I’d launch myself out the nearest window.
She scoffs loud enough to make Dexter lift his head and stare.
Rolling her eyes, she slaps the phone face-down like it personally offended her.
Sweet baby Jesus. There might be hope for me yet.
"Not in the Vexley fan club?" I ask, sipping my beer like I’m not fighting a goddamn war inside.
She shifts, angling toward me, one knee bent, her arm stretched along the couch back.
Head propped against her fist, she watches me under a lazy fringe of lashes.
Like she’s getting comfortable.
Like she wants to be here with me.
"Are you kidding?" she says, nose wrinkling adorably. "Graham is disgust-o."
The relief that hits me could launch a thousand choirs.
The angels themselves could descend, harps blazing, and it still wouldn’t match the shit-eating grin crawling up my face.
"I assumed," I say carefully, trying to sound indifferent, "when you said someone you worked with... you were talking about him."
The air shifts.
We both feel it.
The change.
The stakes.
Her gaze drops for a beat before she shakes her head—once. Small. Definitive.
"No," she says quietly. "I wasn’t talking about Graham."
My pulse hammers.
Each breath feels heavier. Like the atmosphere is thickening between us.
I set my beer down, inching closer without even realizing it.
"So," I murmur, voice low, "you don't want Graham?"
Her eyes—those ocean-blue eyes—lift to mine.
And god help me, I see it.
The truth that’s going to undo me.
Her voice is barely a whisper, but it cuts through me like a blade.
"No," she says, breath hitching. "I don’t want Graham."
Now she’s moving too.
Drawn together like magnets, slow and inevitable.
We don’t back out.
I brush her jaw, feeling the tremble in her skin.