Greer

When Danika walks into my office behind me, it’s as if I’m seeing it for the first time.

God, it’s fucking boring.

Sure, there are framed pictures of me on the wall shaking hands with the mayor, alongside commendations, degrees and awards. But there’s nothing personal. No propped-up family photos or children’s finger painting. Little things cops use as reminders that the entire world isn’t locked inside the tired gray walls where topics like assault, homicide and suspicious packages are discussed like the weather. There’s a paperweight—a birthday gift from Charlie—that says, “I’m not bossy, I just know what you should be doing,” but that’s it.

Christ, this is ridiculous. I just led a briefing with an audience of jaded, hard-nosed cops regarding an armed assault suspect at large. Now this girl half my size is making my palms sweat. I track to the far side of my desk and gesture for Danika to sit down, wondering how long the smell of her will hang around when she leaves. Maybe it can be my version of a finger painting, just for a while.

“What are you doing here?”

She sits down, brown eyes flicking between me and the pictures on the wall. “I’m checking in, Lieutenant.”

I don’t allow any surprise to show on my face, but it’s expanding in my throat. Since I sent her storming out of the locker room, I haven’t let myself harbor an iota of hope she’d voluntarily put herself in my company again. Hell, she shouldn’t. I can’t even turn off my asshole function when the girl I’ve been fantasizing about naked gives me permission to do just that. I’ve been vacillating between congratulating myself for putting a stop to an inappropriate situation and wishing it was possible to kick my own ass. Not a great couple of days.

“I assumed it was clear after . . .” Frowning down at the papers on my desk, I make a big show of shuffling them so I can avoid a replay of the humiliation I caused. “After what happened, I think it’s best to end your probation. You’re off the hook.”

Her eyebrows draw together. “I don’t want to be off the hook.”

“Why?” My tone is still hard from the meeting, and I attempt to soften it, reminding myself she’s not one of my officers. “I haven’t seen you since Wednesday. What changed your mind since then?”

For the first time since she walked in, I realize her hair is down. Have I ever seen it that way? No, it’s always in one of those flippy ponytails, bouncing all over the place when she runs. It’s wavy today, stopping a few inches past her shoulders. Even with her tits.

Don’t think about her tits.

“My mom’s bike got stolen,” she answers, sweeping back the uneven ends of her hair. “She told me I was so responsible, offering to file the police report for her. It made me feel guilty for taking the easy way out. With you.”

“I see.” Her honest answer takes me off guard. I expected sarcasm. But I like her being truthful with me. Very much. “There’s no reason for you to feel guilty. I didn’t behave like a gentleman.”

A laugh puffs out of her. “Most men don’t these days.”

“They should,” I bite out. “They better with you.”

Dammit, why can’t I operate with a clear head around Danika? My mouth acts on its own, right along with my cock. Brow furrowed, she’s staring down at the ground now, sneaking curious peeks up at me through her eyelashes, like I’m an alien life form. “I make sure they do, don’t worry,” she murmurs. “On the rare occasions I have dates. They’re like a lunar eclipse.”

“You have one tonight,” I point out, before thinking better of it. Great. Now I’m not just her weirdly protective—older—instructor with a boring office. I’m also the guy who has a mental calendar of her social schedule.

“Yes.” She rolls her lips inward. “It’s just pizza.”

Is that why she’s wearing her hair down? I don’t like the style as much as I originally thought. My hands itch to shove the strands through one of those rubber band deals. I expend the extra energy by printing out a stolen property form for her to fill out, and sliding it across the table.

Watching as she plucks a pen out of my cup and begins completing the questionnaire, I can’t seem to keep my curiosity at bay. Curiosity? That’s hilarious. If I didn’t think it would get me locked in a mental ward, I would book an interrogation room to get every detail of the upcoming date out of her. “Are you on your way to this . . . outing now?”

Her eyebrow goes up at the word outing. “No, I have to run back to Hell’s Kitchen and babysit my cousin’s baby for an hour.”

“You were already there once today?”

She nods. “Mom’s vacuum was broken. And she needed groceries and stamps—”

“So you came all the way east, just for . . . this? Only to turn right back around?”

“That’s right. When something is bothering me, I try to face it right away.” She rubs her cheek on her shoulder in a gesture I know well from the academy. She’s always doing it during lectures. “I don’t want to get away with shirking my responsibilities.”

“It sounds like you have a lot of them. Responsibilities.” Every once in a while, when interrogating a perp, the cop strikes a nerve. Sometimes that nerve has no connection to their possible crime, but we hit it nonetheless. I’ve just prodded Danika’s sore tooth by pointing out how busy she seems to be on others’ behalves. It’s my nature to dig deeper, but this time it’s because I want to know what makes her tick. No denying that. “I’m aware that Jack Garrett joined the academy thanks to your influence. Your cousin called you when his store was going to be robbed, too. Does everyone depend on you?”

“If they do, I’m glad.” She says it too fast, and we both know what that signals. When I raise an eyebrow, the tension seems to leave her neck. “Maybe sometimes . . . I keep myself available, just in case my family needs me.”

“You don’t know how to say no.”

Signing her name on the form and pushing it back toward me, she smirks. “No.”

I see you now, tough girl. Thank God I keep that sentiment in my head, because we’re both uncomfortable by how far this conversation has gone. Me, because I genuinely care about her answers and want to help. Her, because she probably thinks revealing her weaknesses to me is a bad thing. Does she have any idea how hard I can relate to her hating the chink in her armor? “All right, Silva. Consider yourself checked in—”

“Is this your book of the week?” Her gentle fingers are combing through the paperwork on my desk. Which is so intimate, she might as well be combing through my chest hair. Finally, she retrieves my copy of The Lost Order by Steve Berry and holds it up. “For book club?”

“Yes.” I shift in my seat, commanding my hands to stay where they are. “Brought it to read on my lunch break. But I never get one, so I guess the joke is on me. You can put it down now.”

Danika tilts her head, setting off sparkles in her eyes. “You don’t like people touching your books?”

“The corners get damaged very easily.”

“Hmmm.” She lays it down carefully. “What are your book club meetings like?”

“Most of the officers are there by recommendation of a department therapist.” Sliding the book off my desk, I place it in my top drawer, mentally reciting the page number where I left off, since I never bend pages. Ever. “Officers who’ve discharged their weapon or dealt with a traumatic event while on duty. Reading is a way to occupy their thoughts and the club keeps them accountable.”

“And you lead the group.” Her delicious-looking mouth slides into a smile at one end. “Did you . . . create the group?” I give a brisk nod and she falls back into the chair. “Oh.”

The urge to explain catches me off guard and I don’t suppress it in time. “I was required to attend sessions with the department therapist after . . .” When her smile drops I know she’s aware of the reason I had mandated therapy. It’s no secret I lost my partner. Ignoring the stab of discomfort in my jugular, I keep going. “I hated it. Figured there were other officers who’d rather drink a quick beer and talk about something besides themselves. So I got it done. There’s no tears or hand-holding. It’s not a support group, Silva.”

“Yes, it is. A really cool one.”

My laugh surprises me. “You just called my book club cool?”

Danika shrugs one shoulder, her mouth twisting. It seems like she might say something important, so I hold my breath. “I collect stamps.” I’m still holding my breath, but now there’s satisfaction burrowing under my skin. “It wasn’t supposed to be a serious relationship between stamps and me, but my father used to work as a post office clerk. After school, I’d meet him there and we’d walk home together. Every once in a while, he had a special edition stamp for me. It became a habit to press them into my scrapbook . . . so I kept doing it.” She nods in the direction of my drawer. “So there. We’re both secret geeks.”

Warmth coats my insides. She just shared something with me.

Danika sucks in an excited breath, and my belt begins to feel confining. “There’s a collector’s edition Elvis stamp coming out next week. It’ll probably be gone by the time we’re dismissed from drills in the evening, but I’ll get to see it online.”

“Why don’t you ask someone to go get it for you? Your father, or . . .”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s no big deal.”

I see you even more now, tough girl. “So favors for everyone else, but you refuse to ask for your own.”

“I asked you for one, didn’t I?” We stare across the desk at one another for a few moments, while I exult in the fact that she did, in fact, ask for my help when she doesn’t do it often. With anyone. “I need to get back to the West Side. Are we good here?”

“Yes.” I gain my feet, as well. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Thanks for organizing that community service for Robbie.” She pushes up from the chair. “I think it was good for him.”

Her words linger in the air when she leaves the office, along with her scent. I circle the desk in three long strides and close the door, trying to keep it trapped. After a greedy inhale, my eyes stray to the clock. Four more hours on shift. By the time I get home tonight, she’ll be on her pizza date with another man. The reminder makes my gut tighten, acid shooting up my throat.

How will I fucking stand it?