Greer

When my door buzzer goes off, I assume it’s another addition to the book club meeting. We’re almost finished with our discussion of The Lost Order, but since a lot of us are on cop schedules, it’s not unusual for people to arrive late. There’s a standing agreement that the meetings are casual and joining the conversation is not mandatory. But because the group counts as department-mandated therapy for a lot of the members, being present is necessary so I can sign off on their paperwork.

In the two years I’ve been running the book club, I’ve started to notice a cycle. Newcomers hate every fucking second of it, because they don’t believe they need therapy. I’ve been there myself, after Griffin lost his life. Hell, I’m scheduled to meet again with a department therapist later this week about discharging my weapon. Not even running the book club can get me out of that appointment. Being one-on-one with a doctor makes cops edgy, but the group setting can be even more intimidating. It’s one thing to admit weaknesses to someone you only have a temporary relationship with, but it’s a whole other animal discussing it with colleagues.

It takes about two meetings for newbies to realize no one is watching them like a lab rat and no one is going to make them sing “Kumbaya.” Frankly, I don’t care if they join the discussion at all. As soon as they sense that, the truth comes out. And that truth is this: Every New Yorker has an opinion, and keeping it to themselves is the equivalent of Chinese water torture. Those opinions extend to books, too. Some of the most vocal members were quiet and skeptical in the beginning. Now I can’t even wrap these meetings up by midnight sometimes, because everyone has to put in their two cents.

Being that a retired detective and a rookie cop are currently in a heated discussion about the protagonist’s motivation, I deem it safe to get up and buzz up the late newcomer. I hold the button down and crack my apartment door, intending to return to the group of eleven cops . . . but instead of heavy male tread coming up the stairs, I hear a hollow clacking sound, so I decide to wait at the door and see if I buzzed in a trespasser by mistake.

Just like everything I’ve encountered since Friday night, the obvious fact that a woman is approaching makes me think of Danika. I’ve thought of her so much, I think I’m dreaming her when she appears at the end of my hallway. Imaginary or not, she looks like a goddamn meal coming toward me on a conveyor belt. No, not a conveyor belt. Those legs are bringing her my direction, and they’re smooth, long and sexy. There’s way too much of them showing, though, so it better not be Danika.

It’s her.

No more denying it when she’s ten yards away, striding like a runway model, jiggling her gorgeous tits all over the fucking place.

“Where’s the rest of your clothes?” She sways to a stop in front of me, and I check the urge to tackle her. Just tackle her, get my mouth suctioned to a strategic spot on her body and ask questions later. My palms are sweating, my dick is getting chubby in my briefs. I’m about to demand again what the hell she’s thinking walking around in a T-shirt, but the sharp, sweet smell of liquor hits my nose. “Have you been drinking?”

“Where are your clothes? Have you been drinking?” I barely get past the shock of her mimicking my voice before she keeps going. “Oh no. Don’t you pull this Grim Reaper act with me.” She plants her index finger between my pecs. “I’m on to you, Lieutenant.”

Yeah, she’s had a few drinks. And I really want to demand an explanation. Who was she with? Did she use a safe method of transportation to get here? But I want to know what she means even more. So I’ll save the third degree for later. But it’s coming. “You’re on to me?”

“Uh-huh. Look at you. Showing up and dropping bikes and brownies off all willy-nilly. Making me cancel my dates.” Her hips are so loose, it looks like she’s dancing every time she shifts side to side. “How did you find the bike, anyway?”

Just like the time she asked about my stamps escapade, I can’t help but feel somewhat self-conscious revealing the lengths I’d go to to have her pleased with me. “It took me about two hours of searching the for-sale section on Craigslist.”

Her lower lip pops out. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

My gut knits tight. “Even if you had thought of it, Danika, you wouldn’t have gone to reclaim the bike at the suspect’s apartment alone. Right?”

She toes the hallway floor with those fancy shoes. “Did you go alone?”

Is she worried after the fact? About me? “No, not even I would go alone.”

A silence passes where she seems to have a hard time looking at me. “We’re getting off the subject.” She ambles closer. Close enough that I could count her eyelashes. “I’m on to you, Greer. You can ignore my phone calls. You can ice me at the academy or refuse to stay over for pizza. But the proof is in the pudding. So.”

Jesus, I missed her. “So.”

“That’s right.” She looks left and right down the hallway as if it just occurred to her I might have curious neighbors. “Are you going to invite me inside or not?”

“That depends. Have you read The Lost Order?”

“The Lost—” Color drains from her face, and I take that as my cue to step aside. When I turn to look over my shoulder, I’m not surprised to see the meeting has ground to a halt in favor of listening to the half-drunk girl shouting at me in the hallway. Eleven sets of shrewd cop eyes are watching the scene unfold with nothing short of rapt interest and amusement. The rules dictate that I should send Danika home. She’s one of my academy pupils, and while I doubt anyone here tonight would report me for having a relationship—physical or otherwise—with her, I’ve always acted above reproach. I set the example.

The rules mean nothing with Danika standing in front of me, though. I’m nervous I’ll have nothing she likes to eat—and that’s about it. When did I throw out the textbook I used to follow to the letter? I’m pretty damn certain the reason is wobbling on a pair of fuck-me shoes outside my door. And I know that because since she appeared at the end of the hallway, the tightness in my muscles that’s been building for days has turned to liquid. I’m standing inside my home, but my home feels like it’s in front of me, not behind. Here she is. She comes back. I can already feel my guard dropping, and shit, it’s such a relief.

Danika, on the other hand, is staring at my living room full of cops looking like a nun who just took a wrong turn into Burning Man. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’ll just go.”

Go? She spins on a heel to leave, and my heart slingshots up into my throat. “No.” I reach out and catch her arm. “No. Come in. Please.”

“I—I can’t.” Her brown eyes are incredulous. “You’re my instructor. We’re not supposed to be together.”

I know she’s referring to the academy rules, but her stringing those particular words together is like a gut shot. I’ve been ignoring the proof that there’s something I can’t bury going on between me and Danika. But my outrage over her saying out loud we can’t be together seals it. I’m done avoiding her. I’m done burying what she makes me feel. Hell, it’s not working anyway, is it? When I dropped off the bike to her father earlier tonight, I spied some family photo albums on the living room bookshelf and almost offered to make a trade. A picture of Danika’s college graduation for the bike. How about it, Pops? I’ve got it bad. Worse than bad. I’ve been an asshole to this girl that I’m fucking nuts over, but she came over despite my attempts to shuffle her aside. I don’t want to hurt her anymore.

The opposite of hurting her is trying to make her happy. As in, an ongoing project. Can I let go of my caution and do that? I won’t know unless I try. Getting her inside is the first step.

“You’re going to have to trust me on this.” I sigh over her skeptical expression. “I’ve built enough of a reputation, Danika, that if I was called to the floor over an inappropriate relationship with a recruit, my superiors would know it was a special circumstance.” I swallow a mallet. “You are a special circumstance. I’d take that slap on the wrist just to have you yell at me again that the proof is in the pudding.”

She tugs her arm away. “I don’t feel special when you ignore my calls.”

“I’m sorry.” I take her fisted hand and press it up against my heart. “‘Hey, it’s me. You never took your caveat beer for the trunk. Um. Hope you have a good day. Bye.’”

Her brows draw together. “What’s that?”

“It’s the voice mail you left me on Saturday morning. I’ve listened to it more than is considered healthy, all right?” I can’t believe I just told her that. “A car alarm goes off outside toward the end, and I’m pretty sure it belongs to a late model Lincoln.”

“That is such a weird way of trying to change the subject.”

“Yeah.” I uncurl her fingers one by one and lay them flat on my chest. “You hoped I had a good day, right? I didn’t. Honestly, baby, I haven’t had a good one since the last time I saw you.” She still doesn’t say anything, so I go for broke and let it all hang out. “Danika, you’re . . .”

“What?”

“You’re the best part of my days.”

I don’t know what reaction I expected, but it wasn’t suspicion. “Okay, who are you and where did you stash the lieutenant?”

And that’s what I get for trying to be romantic. Without waiting for more sass to come out of her mouth, I stoop down and throw her over my shoulder. Before I turn around, I make sure the dress is covering Danika’s ass and a good portion of her thighs. “You—w-wait.” She slaps the back of my leg. “Did you mean that?”

“You lost your chance to find out,” I lie, nudging open the door to my apartment and marching inside with a sputtering Danika. A couple of the older group members stand up, obviously trapped between trusting me and wanting to provide Danika with assistance, but I sit them back down with a glare. My kitchen is located just off the living room, so they have a front row seat to me pulling out a stool for Danika and parking her caboose on it. “Don’t move until I’m finished.” She opens her mouth, clearly ready to launch a protest, but I open my drawer and retrieve a Snickers bar, hesitating a moment before placing it in her hand. “Here.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” I point at it, like we both don’t already know what object I’m referring to. “I bought it in case you showed up.”

“You bought me candy?”

Christ, she’s actually in my kitchen. When I pictured this happening, she walked in of her own free will, but this is no time to split hairs. “Do you like candy?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes, I bought it for you.”

She picks up the Snickers and examines it. “How drunk am I?”

Is this going terribly? I can’t tell. I have nothing to judge it against. But I know I’m anxious for everyone to leave so I can focus on having her here. We might be snapping at each other, but I’d rather bicker with Danika than do damn near anything. “Can you just stay while I wrap up this meeting, please?”

It takes her a moment to nod. “Yes.”

She’s so flushed and wide-eyed—like she’s seeing me for the first time—my need to kiss her turns fucking unbearable. “I want you here.”

“I want to be here.”