His expression tightens and for once it’s not at all subtle. He clearly dislikes that building far more than I do. “Or worse.”
My head snaps to the side, gaze zeroing in on him. “What?”
“Never mind,” he says quickly. “Just… everyone deserves to feel safe in their own home.”
His words, and the significance behind them, hits hard, making my head hurt like a bad memory. His words hide something underneath them, something I’m sure is work related.
I study him for a second then, “you say that like you’re planning to fix it.”
There’s a pause long enough to see Mason stop at that sedan parked by my apartment building’s entrance. I’m starting to wonder if where that car gets parked on this block isn’t just about where there’s an open parking space.
“Maybe I am. Or at least trying.”
My pulse stutters. “That sounds… ominous.”
“It’s not,” he replies, but there’s a weight to it that says otherwise.
Silence stretches between us again as we stare at each other. The breeze picks up, blowing my ponytail over my shoulder. It feels so empty here, like the street has faded away, leaving just us.
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to be worried for your safety?” I ask.
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second then lifts again but not before I barely suppress a whole-body shiver.
“Yes,” he says simply.
My breath catches.
“But you’re not,” he adds.
“No,” I admit. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I should be. A man like him, armed and intense and clearly involved in something bigger than he’s saying, should set off every alarm bell in my head. Instead… I’m curious and drawn in. And there’s something wrong with that. Or maybe there’s something wrong with me.
I’ve seen what violence does. I’ve held pressure on wounds that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. I’ve attended to people who got caught in the crossfire of a violent situation that they weren’t even involved in to begin with.
I should want distance from him. I should want the safety and predictability of not living in the most dangerous part of town… and getting involved with the detective leading the way to trying to clean it up.
But instead, I live here, walk these streets, step into chaos without hesitation, and keep finding myself next to the very detective putting himself into this mess. I’m standing in front of a man who practically radiates danger… and I’m too busy thinking about the way his shirt stretches across the muscular bands of his arms to digest the danger of my neighborhood that I apparently don’t completely understand.
Fantastic.
“Do you always look at people like that?” I ask suddenly, immediately wanting to shove my foot in my mouth.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure out how they fit into something you haven’t explained yet.”
He doesn’t answer right away, staying silent long enough for me to convince myself that Idefinitelyshouldn’t have said that.
But what he says next not only proves me wrong, but it rewrites the way the back of my mind is trying to convince me to move.
“Only when it matters.”
“And I matter?” I press, half teasing.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes.”
I have to swallow hard to keep my voice from cracking because the word has settled somewhere low in my stomach, making me feel like if I open my mouth again, something I’ll be embarrassed about will spew out.
Before I can respond, a voice carries from down the block. “Thornton!”
