Page 49 of My Fallen Saint

He doesn’t flinch. “I was assessing the odds of you coming back. I thought they were low, even with the rental. Apparently, I miscalculated.”

“Dammit, Alex—”

“Devlin.”

“Fine. Devlin. Why? Why did it matter so much that I not be here?”

“Things are different now. And you make them complicated. I’m not a big fan of complications.”

“That isn’t even close to an answer.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

I swallow. “Yeah, well, so sorry for gumming up the works.” I wave a hand. “Can we just get out of here?”

His lips move as if he’s going to speak, but then he moves the key to the ignition.

“Wait!” I grab his hand—and a sizzle of connection ricochets through me. I yank my hand back, feeling not only like a fool but hyperaware of this man. “I’m sorry. I just realized—Brandy.”

He turns to me, his face impassive, and I wonder if he felt anything at all except pressure from my touch “What about her?”

“She won a ticket to the gala.”

“Did she? I hope she had a nice time.”

I cock my head. “A prize ticket at the very last minute? Seems pretty disorganized for a place like the DSF that runs like clockwork.”

“I’ll be sure to get my people on that.”

“Come on, Saint. Own up to it.”

He almost smiles. “Your inner cop is showing.”

For a second, I have no idea what he means. “Devlin, I say. And you’re right.” Raised by a cop, a cop myself, and now a reporter. Yeah, I default to last names all the time. “You’re also avoiding the point. Why did you give Brandy a ticket?”

He shifts enough in his seat to face me square on, and though his expression is bland, I think I see just a hint of sadness in his face. “I thought you could use a friend. Of course, that was before I knew you had a date.”

“Oh.” I lean back in my seat, more pleased than I should be and not bothering to correct him about Lamar. I’ve done that dance already. “Well, okay, we should probably get going.”

He starts Shelby, but before he can pull out into the street, I twist in my seat once more. “Devlin?”

He looks at me, his brows raised.

“Thank you.”

We share a smile. And for a moment—just a tiny fleeting moment—it feels a bit like Alex and El again.

But I’m damn sure not going to get used to it.

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, but I’m inside the DSF following Tamra into the hushed room that takes up most of the third floor. Filled with long tables topped with boxes, rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and walls lined with filing cabinets, the DSF Research Room rivals any library I’ve ever been in.

I’m surprised to see someone already at one of the tables. A lean-faced man of about thirty, with broad shoulders, golden hair, and a friendly smile. He’s completely surrounded by file boxes and stacks of folders.

“Are you having any luck?” Tamra asks him.

“It’s a gold mine,” he says, tapping the tip of his pen on a yellow pad. “I’ve filled up three of these already.”

I look between the two of them. “I’m sorry. I thought this room was closed on the weekends.”