He blinked slowly, like he was processing information that didn’t quite compute, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion before he quickly schooled his expression back to neutral. “Of course. They’ll be delivered tomorrow to your address.”
“Delivered? By whom?”
“By…by my assistant?”
He said it as a question, as if he were asking me. “Detectives have assistants?”
A brief hesitation, and then, “No, no. Of course not. I have one. Myself, I mean. I’m…independently wealthy?”
Another statement that sounded like a question. “You’re rich yet still working as a detective?”
“I really love my job. It brings me a deep satisfaction that transcends any money or riches.”
Okay, that had sounded sincere. “That’s very admirable of you.”
“Thank you.” He looked pleased with himself as if he’d passed some kind of test. “So, can we go now?”
He sounded eager, which was a bit surprising, to be honest. Surely an NYPD detective could think of more fun things to do than babysit a witness?
“Sure,” I said, maybe sounding a little less convincing than he’d expected because he narrowed his eyes.
“You don’t want me to come with you now?”
“I do,” I said quickly. “Of course I do. And I’m grateful that the NYPD is taking this so seriously. But it’s still a lot, you know? To process?”
The tension on his face dissipated. “I can understand that. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable with me being there.”
Of course I was uncomfortable with him being there—in my home, in my space, in my suddenly very complicated life. The man was absolutely gorgeous, all lean muscle and devastating smiles, while I was…well, me. A hot mess on a good day, and today definitely wasn’t a good day.
He’d see my little house with its mismatched furniture and the pile of romance novels by my bed. He’d find out how boring my life was, how utterly devoid of anything exciting. He’d notice how chaotic I could be, and that I talked to my sourdough starter like it was a pet. He’d figure out pretty quickly that I was a small-town baker who was way out of his league, and then what?
And then nothing, I reminded myself firmly. And then absolutely nothing because he wasn’t there to form opinions about my life or my living situation. He wasn’t there to judge my decorating skills or my eating habits. It didn’t even matter what he thought of me. We were not together for real—duh. He was my pretend boyfriend, emphasis on pretend, and I’d better keep that really, really clear in my head.
“Absolutely. Comfortable, I mean, with you there as my pretend boyfriend, Detective O’Rourke.”
God, I sounded like a moron. Detective O’Rourke flashed me a grin, however, so maybe he didn’t feel the same way. “Eamon.”
“Excuse me?”
“Eamon. That’s my name. I don’t think this will work if you keep calling me Detective O’Rourke.”
“Eamon.” I swallowed. “Of course.”
He cocked his head. “We good?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Yes, we are. Completelygood.” Oh god, I needed to keep my mouth shut before I made an even bigger fool of myself.
“Good. How did you get here? Did you drive?”
I stared at him. Had he really asked that? I wasn’t imagining things? The question was so fundamentally ridiculous that, for a moment, I couldn’t even process it. How long had this man been a detective in New York City without understanding the most basic principle of urban survival: you did not voluntarily drive into Manhattan unless you hated yourself and-or had money to burn? “How long have you been with the NYPD?”
“Why?”
“Because the notion that anyone would voluntarily drive from Charming to the city is, quite frankly, preposterous.”
He blinked. “It is?”
Okay, what was going on with this guy? He was either brand new to the city—like, arrived-yesterday new—oblivious as fuck, or way too slow in the head to be a detective.
