Meg glanced over from opening the wine. “My brother’s fiancée. They’re getting married in two weeks.”
Meg had two brothers, Lauren remembered.
Before the robbery, she’d always imagined she was a good listener. A useful skill for a clinician. Even more useful for a crisis negotiator. Anyway, it had kept her and seven other people alive. But she realized she knew next to nothing about Meg’s personal life. Maybe she was a little intimidated by Meg’s easy assurance.
And maybe she was becoming as self-absorbed as Brandon accused her of being.
“Is that your brother the fisherman?” Lauren asked.
“No, that’s Matt. Luke’s the cop.”
“Oh.”
Meg lowered the wine bottle. “Should I have mentioned it before? Do you have issues?”
“Issues,” Lauren repeated blankly.
“With cops. Because of... You know. The bank thing. The shooting.”
Lauren flushed. “Oh. No.” She tried to make a joke. “I’m anxious, not paranoid.”
Meg’s brow creased in concern.
Lauren sighed. “The police have a job to do,” she said and tried to shut down the memory of Ben’s face as they’d swarmed over him on the floor, jerking his arms, cuffing his hands behind him. The smells of flop sweat, urine, and blood.
She cleared her throat. “It’s natural for them to see things in black and white. Us versus Them. Me or Him.”
“And that’s not how you see it,” Meg said.
Lauren smiled crookedly. “I must. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m alive.” She took a gulp of wine, swallowing the taste of betrayal. “Anyway, I’m grateful to the cops for doing their job that day. That doesn’t mean I’d sleep with one.”
Meg’s eyes widened.
“No offense to your brother. I didn’t mean him,” Lauren added hastily. Crap, that came out wrong. “Not that I’d sleep with your brother, either.”
“I’m sure that’s a relief to his fiancée,” said a flat, deep voice behind her. Jack Rossi’s voice.
Lauren’s stomach sank. Her cheeks burned.
She turned and there he was, Jack Rossi in uniform and in the flesh, dark and lean and oozing pheromones on the other side of the screen door, having obviously heard every word.
Double crap.
***
JACK GRINNED, ENJOYINGher blush. My point, sweetheart, he thought.
And then wondered why he was keeping score.
He wasn’t interested in playing games anymore. He was thirty-eight years old. Ready to settle or at least to settle down. He wanted calm, companionship, stability. Kids. Not some Goth wannabe with painful piercings and her whole life ahead of her.
She was... interesting-looking, though. Not deliberately sexy like the girls from his neighborhood, with their fake nails and fake hair and breasts served up like apples on a plate. Her plain black tank top showed off her arms and the delicate bones at her throat. Her eyes were smudged, her lips bare, like a woman after a night of sex.
She caught him looking and smiled back crookedly, her eyes dark with rueful awareness. His dick shifted from neutral to first. Yeah, definite spark of awareness there.
He inhaled carefully.
That doesn’t mean I’d sleep with one.
