Page 164 of Vicious Temptation

As the water continues pouring over us, I work the cloth across his bicep, and I find myself wondering the same thing.

What the hell am I doing here?

A week ago, if someone had told me I’d be standing in a shower taking care of a sick cop, I would’ve laughed in their face. Now, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

The realization should bother me, but the truth is that I care. I care that he hasn’t eaten and that he’s been alone for days. I care that he’s sick, which is exactly why I raced here despite spending the last three days angry at him.

When I finally let myself sit with those feelings instead of running from them, I realize I don’t hate what they mean nearly as much as I thought I would.

“Where do you keep your linens?” I ask as I towel-dry my hair for the second time today.

“In the hallway closet right outside the bathroom,” he says as he pulls on a fresh T-shirt.

“Will you be okay?”

He arches an eyebrow. “I think I’ll survive.”

“We’ll see. You need a clean blanket, and that couch needs a cover until we can haul it off to a landfill.”

His laugh is still rough, but at least he’s laughing. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Nope,” I say, popping the p.

Ten minutes later, a freshly showered Officer Braga is stretched out on the couch beneath a clean blanket while the television plays softly in the background. Meanwhile, I’m standing in his kitchen trying to turn canned soup into something remotely edible.

Sure, it isn’t Estela’s caldo de pollo, but he needs food in his system, and canned soup is better than whatever he’s been surviving on for the past few days. Which is nothing.

I open a cabinet to find a bowl, and a manila envelope tumbles onto the counter. I pick it up and turn it over. There’s nothing written on the outside, and when I tilt it, something small shifts inside.

Whatever.

Sliding it back where it was, I continue searching until I find a blue bowl shoved behind a stack of mismatched plates.

“Found you.”

I return to the living room with the soup, hand it to Thiago, then take a seat beside him. He eats about half before setting it on the coffee table and sinking deeper into the couch.

He didn’t eat much, but baby steps are still steps.

I grab the lollipop and drop onto the couch beside him.

“You already look so much better,” I say as I pop the candy into my mouth.

“You’re eating my morale.”

I shrug. “You weren’t using it.”

Amusement softens his expression. “That’s fair.”

The room grows comfortably quiet as the last of the evening sunlight filters through the blinds.

“Thank you, Remi.”

My stomach does an annoying little flip when he reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

“And just so you know, you seem to care a lot for someone who keeps insisting she isn’t my friend.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Braga.”