CHAPTER 60
She shrugs again, doing that fake-casual thing that would fool exactly no one with a functioning pulse.
"I mean, it’s not a big deal."
"Not a big deal? Right. And I’m the Queen of England."
I lean forward, elbows braced on the table, dropping my voice until it’s nothing but a gravel scrape.
"Are you a...?"
Her head snaps up so fast it’s a miracle she doesn’t give herself whiplash.
"WHAT?!" she whisper-shrieks, loud enough to turn heads two tables over.
"No!" she hisses, mortified, face going bright red. "I’m not a—" she glances around, “—v-word!"
I smirk into my tea, enjoying this way more than I should. Because if there’s anything better than flustered Paty, it’sscandalizedPaty, ready to throttle me with a soup dumpling.
She sinks lower into the booth like she’s hoping for spontaneous invisibility.
"I just..." I shake my head slowly, like I’m solving for x, "I can’t wrap my fucking head around that."
Because I can’t.
She’s all fire and trouble and chaos and heart.
She talks a hundred miles a minute, kicks ass in heels taller than most men’s egos, and still manages to look at the world like it’s not completely broken.
How has nobody kissed her?
Not even once?
She glares at me, red-faced and furious. "Can we not make this a thing?"
“Okay.” I lift my hands in surrender. Because despite every dumb, reckless part of me that wants to lean across the table and wreck her world, I know the line here.
For now.
We lapse into silence.
But something’s shifted.
Not broken. Not shattered.
Just tilted. Crooked in that dangerous way. Like my lips on hers are nowon the table.
The ride back starts quiet.
The kind of quiet that presses in too tight. That crawls under your skin and tightens the screws from the inside.
I keep my eyes on the road, pretending not to notice the way the air thickens between us. But I do.
I always do.
Paty’s staring out the window, tapping restless patterns on her knee. Chewing her bottom lip like she’s trying to bite back every thought in her head.
And I’m not thinking about traffic anymore.
I’m thinking about her.
About how someone like her made it this far without ever being seen.
It claws at me. Ugly and raw.
"I just…" I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be, "I can't understand that."
She stiffens. "Can we not do this again?"
I should let it go but I fucking can’t.
"If you’ve never been kissed," I push, quieter now, more lethal, "have you ever had a?—?"
"Don’t finish that," she snaps, her glare sharp enough to wound.
"That’s none of your business."
"I’ll take that as a no."
"It’s not that uncommon, you know," she fires off, like she’s reading from a brochure. "Over fifty percent of women report difficulty reaching climax during sex."
I scoff. "Yeah? Well, one hundred percent of my partners leave satisfied."
It's a dick thing to say. I know it the second it leaves my mouth.
She huffs, pure disbelief. "Not surprised."
I cut my eyes toward her, slow and sharp. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means," she says, voice sweet as cyanide, "your reputation precedes you, Detective Blackwood. I'd be shocked if you even remember half their names."
The hit lands.
Hard.
“My reputation?”
"It’s not like I had to twist your arm to flirt with that receptionist.” She scoffs, still looking out the window. “Bet you actually got her number. Did you get her name? Or does that not matter?"
I grip the wheel so tight the leather groans under my hands.
"You know," I say, voice low and sharp, "instead of lashing out at everyone else, maybe figure out how to handle your jealousy. Like a big girl."
Her head snaps toward me. Eyes wide, cheeks burning.
"In your dreams," she hisses.
But it’s too late.
I smirk—humorless, bitter. "You're not mad I flirted. You’re mad it wasn’t with you."
She flinches like I slapped her.
And then—because shehasto say something that’ll hit back?—
"I would never be interested in someone like you," she spits.
Clean and cruel.
And I don’t laugh.
Not because it’s not bullshit.
But because it is.
I yank the SUV into the precinct lot harder than necessary, slamming it into park. The engine ticks as it dies, but the silence between us is louder.
I lean over, close enough to smell her perfume. My voice drops to a rasp.
"You keep telling yourself that, Lollipop. Why don’t you enlighten me about this reputation I have."
She folds her arms like armor. “I’ve heard the rumors, Roger. I’ve listened to the way women talk about you.”
I watch her while the silence in the SUV gets thicker. Watch the fight brewing behind her eyes.
“Oh yeah?” I say quietly. “And what is it they say?”
She rattles it off like a checklist. “That you don’t date. That you never take a woman out twice. That you’re just working your way through the courthouse, one clerk at a time.”
I laugh—dry, humorless. “Is that what’s bothering you? That I’ve apparently asked out everyone… except you?”
She scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But there’s a flicker—barely there. I catch it. And press.
"You feeling left out, baby?”