Joe Malone wasn’t a big fan of mornings and never had been. Growing up, his alarm clock had been his dad banging a pan on the stovetop. Later, in the military, it’d been some higher ranked asshole screaming into his ear.

Today it was 100 percent pure responsibility that had him rolling out of bed. He worked on a team of independent contractors who took on criminal, corporate, and insurance investigations along with elite security contracts, surveillance, fraud, and corporate background checks. There were also the occasional forensic investigations, big bond bounty hunting, government contract work, and more. The guy in charge, Archer Hunt, was a tough taskmaster, but it was the best job Joe had ever had. He was second in command and the resident IT genius. Not that he’d started out in IT.

Nope, he’d begun his illustrious career in . . . breaking and entering.

Shrugging the old memories off, he pulled on running gear and managed to get to the previously arranged meeting spot without killing anyone for looking at him cross-eyed. A real feat for how early it was.

Spence was waiting for him and wordlessly handed him a coffee. He was kind enough to wait for the caffeine to kick in before saying, “You’re late.”

“Alarm didn’t go off,” Joe said.

“Because you don’t use an alarm.”

True enough. Joe had an internal clock, one of the things he could thank the army for beating into him.

“You alright?” Spence asked. “I mean, you’re always a bitch in the mornings but you look particularly bitchy today.”

“Bite me.”

Spence was richer than God and brilliant enough that he’d once been recruited to work for a government think tank. Joe was not richer than God, and though he’d also once worked for the government—in special forces, to be exact—it hadn’t been his brain that had been coveted, but his ability to be as lethal as needed.

To say he and Spence were unlikely friends was an understatement. It’d started at the weekly poker game that went on in the Pacific Pier Building’s basement. Spence owned the building, so he played poker with an easy abandon. Joe played poker the same way he lived his life—recklessly. It’d bonded them.

Spence, not really a morning person either and certainly not a coddler, accepted Joe’s “bite me” for “I’m fine,” and they tossed the coffee cups in a trash and took off running. Today they hit the Lyon Street stairs, which—talk about being a bitch—were a straight-up torture rack of 332 steep steps, made all the more daunting by the early morning fog hiding the top third of them from view. This made it feel like an endless, unobtainable goal, not that they let this stop them. If anything, they each pushed harder, trying to outrun each other.

When they finally got to the top they didn’t stop, instead entering The Presidio, a park where one could run along forested trails for miles. Almost immediately the city vanished behind woods of thick eucalyptus and, still goading each other, they went all out.

Spence was in excellent shape, but Joe trained for a living. Five miles later Joe inched ahead of Spence and beat him back to their building, gasping for breath, dripping sweat.

“You’re insane,” Spence managed, bent at the waist, hands on his knees. “You outrun your demons, I hope?”

“Can’t run fast enough for that,” Joe said.

Spence straightened with a frown. “See, something is wrong. Your dad? Molly?”

“No, they’re both fine and so am I.” Joe shook his head. He didn’t know what was up with him, other than a general restlessness. His dad was . . . well, his dad.

“The job?” Spence asked.

Joe shook his head. His job was fulfilling and solid, and served the additional purpose of giving him his daily adrenaline rush as needed. “I’m fine,” he repeated.

“Yeah, so you keep saying.” Spence paused and then shook his head. “I’m around. You know that, right? We’re staying in San Francisco for the next few months.”

Not that long ago, Spence had fallen hard and fast for Colbie Albright, a YA fantasy author based out of New York. They’d been splitting their time between San Francisco and New York, but both preferred San Francisco and resided on the private fifth floor penthouse suite of the Pacific Pier Building where Joe worked.

Colbie had been great for Spence, making him seem more human than he’d ever been, and clearly far happier. Joe was glad for him, even if he didn’t completely understand the life Spence was making in the name of love. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the need or yearning to share his life but that he didn’t feel like he had anything to offer. As a hardened soldier turned security expert, he knew how to protect, but what else could he give to a woman? Teach her how to hold a gun? How to incapacitate a man in one-point-five seconds? Hardly things a normal person would want or need to know.

And he could give even less emotionally. After all he’d seen and done, he wasn’t even actually sure if he could open up or allow himself to be vulnerable enough to sustain a serious relationship. And what woman would want a guy who couldn’t? But not sure if Spence would understand, he simply nodded. “Thanks,” he said, and he meant it.

They fist-bumped and went their separate ways. Joe headed home, showered, and then got to work at two minutes past seven a.m.

“You’re two minutes late,” his sister, Molly, informed him from behind the front desk, where she ran the show at Hunt Investigations. She stood up and moved to her credenza to grab her iPad.

Her limp was more pronounced today than usual, which meant she was in pain, and an age-old guilt sliced through him. Not that he said a word. She got mad whenever he brought it up, but even worse than that, the last time he’d done so, she’d cried.

He hated when she cried. So they played a game he was very familiar with. A game called Ignore All The Feels.

“I’m aware that I’m late, thanks,” he said. He was the older sibling by three years, but twenty-seven-year-old Molly seemed to believe she was in charge of him. Which was not how it really went.

They’d grown up hard and fast. In their neighborhood, they’d had no choice. Their dad suffered with prolonged PTSD from serving in the Gulf War. As a result, Joe had been in charge from a young age. Being poor as dirt hadn’t helped any. He’d gotten in with the wrong crowd early, doing things he shouldn’t have in order to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.

“Archer’s pissed,” Molly warned quietly.

Archer had a thing. Being on time meant you were already late. Being two minutes late was unforgiveable. Joe lifted a bakery box. “I brought bribes.”

“Ooh, gimme,” she said, using both hands to do the come here gesture.

Joe held out the box but didn’t relinquish it when she tried to take it. “Pick one.”

Again she tried to take the box, huffing out a breath when he held tight. “Whatever happened to trust?” she asked, relenting and taking only one doughnut.

“It’s not about trust. It’s about if I let my guard down, you’ll chew my fingers off to get to all the other doughnuts.”

“And?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Annnnnnd . . . you made me swear on Mom’s grave that I wouldn’t give you more than one doughnut per day.”

“That was last week.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So,” she said. “I was PMS-ing last week and feeling fat. I need another doughnut, Joe.”

He had looked death right in the eye more times than he could count but Molly’s tone was more terrifying than anything he’d ever faced. “You said you’d kill me dead in my own bed if I caved to you,” he reminded her.

“That could still happen.”

He stared her down, but she was a Malone through and through and she wasn’t playing. Between a rock and a hard place, he relented and let her take a second doughnut. Because who was he kidding? He’d never been able to tell her no.

“Thanks. And good luck,” she said, mouth full, giving him a chin nod toward Archer’s office. “He’s waiting for you.”

Great. Yet another battle to survive. Some days his life felt like a real-life video game. He headed down the hall to Archer’s office, where Archer and his significant other, Elle, were on the couch, arguing.

“I need the remote to show you my PowerPoint presentation,” Elle was saying.

Archer shook his head. “Told you I don’t have it.”

“You just don’t want to suffer through my PowerPoint,” Elle said.

Archer apparently pleaded the Fifth.

“You’re sitting on it, aren’t you?” she demanded.

Archer almost smiled. “Funny how all trust goes away when the remote’s involved.”

Elle sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“And irresistible,” Archer said. “Don’t forget irresistible.”

“Hmm,” Elle said.

Archer was grinning at her as Joe stepped inside the office to make his presence known because if he gave them another minute, chances were that they’d decide to settle this by getting naked. Yeah, they were polar opposites and drove each other nuts, but they were also passionately in love.

Which was great for them. Personally, he’d rather face battle. War he knew how to handle. War had rules. You fought. You won, no matter the cost.

Love didn’t have rules. And as far as he could tell, you couldn’t actually win at love.

He endured a blistering look from Archer that would’ve caused most anyone else to lose the contents of their bladder. But Joe didn’t scare easily. Still, he stayed a good distance back from the couch and tossed the box of doughnuts their way.

Archer caught it in midair and nodded.

Bribe accepted.

“Where’s everyone else?” Joe asked, referring to the rest of the team of guys who worked at Hunt Investigations.

“I postponed the morning meeting,” Archer said biting into a chocolate glaze. “Which you would’ve known if you’d been here on the hour.”

He was literally four minutes past the hour but he didn’t try to defend himself. Archer hated excuses.

“Heading to work now,” Elle said and walked to the door. “Oh, and do you know why it’s called man hours?” she asked, turning back. “Because a woman does the job in twenty minutes.” With that, she left.

With the box of doughnuts.

Damn. That’d teach Joe not to grab a doughnut when he had the chance.

“So what’s going on with Kylie?” Archer asked.

Joe prided himself on always being prepared, but this caught him off guard. “Nothing,” he said. “Why?”

“Nothing?”

Well, shit. Archer didn’t do small talk. Which meant he knew something.

“Let me help you out here,” Archer said easily. “There’s rumor of some sort of kiss between you two. Does that sound familiar?”

Jesus. That kiss had been in the alley off the courtyard in the pitch dark. They’d been alone, he was sure of it. “How the hell do you always know everything?”

Archer shrugged. “One of life’s little mysteries. Do we need to discuss the risks of hurting one of Elle’s friends?”

“Hell no,” Joe said, looking over his shoulder to make sure Elle had really left. “Nothing personal, boss man, but your woman is crazy.”

Archer smirked. “Man, if a woman hasn’t shown you her crazy, she’s just not that into you.”

While Joe processed that, Archer went on. “I put you in charge of the Rodriquez case,” he said. “You’ve got Lucas riding shotgun. You’ve got an opening to get into the family compound at ten for some surveillance—the notes are in the file. Don’t miss your window.”

Joe nodded. Lucas, a good friend as well as a coworker, was always a good choice. The guy was a sharp partner with even sharper skills, and as badass as they came. Joe would use the couple of hours before their meeting to catch up on the file, which was a probate case. Hunt Investigations had been hired to gather evidence to prove assets were being hidden from key family members. It was a large, dysfunctional family and there was a web of civil cases going on because everyone was suing everyone. It most likely wouldn’t involve a threat to life or limb—always a nice bonus. Leaving Archer’s office, he headed down the hall toward his own, texting Lucas as he went.

Whoever was late owed doughnuts. Shit. Joe texted Tina, who owned the coffee shop downstairs in the courtyard, and put in another order because Lucas liked to be paid in either time in the ring or doughnuts. Joe had done some MMA and even he couldn’t beat Lucas in the ring. Plus he liked his face as-is. So doughnuts it was. He’d barely sunk into his office chair before someone stormed in.

Kylie.

She wore a sunshine yellow peacoat dusted with Vinnie’s dark dog hair, and faded jeans with one knee torn out that snugged to her sweet bod and were tucked into work boots. She was work-ready and a juxtaposition and a challenge all in one, and God help him, he did love a challenge. Especially one in such a pretty package. And the thing about her was this. She was a brilliant woodworker with an artist’s temperament, which meant she wasn’t afraid to say what she was thinking as she thought it.

She’d first come on his radar when she’d started working at Reclaimed Woods last year. He’d been insanely interested, even going so far as to occasionally stop by the store just to catch glimpses of her working those big tools—a ridiculous turn-on, he could admit.

But though he’d swear he’d seen an answering flare of interest in her eyes, she always squelched it so quickly he couldn’t tell if it’d been just wishful thinking on his part. So he’d not gone there.

Not until three nights ago at a party at O’Riley’s, the pub in the building courtyard. The party had been for Spence and Colbie, and it’d involved drunken karaoke and pool, and—to Joe’s ongoing disbelief—that one insanely hot kiss.

They’d stepped outside the pub for fresh air at the same time. One minute they’d both been standing staring at the fountain and the next they were in the alley. She’d turned toward him and laid one longing look at his mouth and the next thing he knew, they were attempting to swallow each other’s tonsils.

In the time since, he’d given up fighting the undeniable truth, which was that he’d wanted her for a long time now. Exactly when the power driving his urge had shifted from being okay with just the fantasy, to actually needing her and being so attracted to her, he had no idea. It’d happened before he’d even realized it was possible.

But ever since Kissgate, she’d gone back to pretending he was a bug on her windshield, which, he had to admit, rankled. “Morning,” he said easily. “Let me guess. You’re here for another kiss.” He smiled. “They always come back for more.”

At this, she stopped short halfway between the door and his desk and narrowed her eyes, and he had the single thought that she was sexy as hell when she was pissed. And then his next thought—he was grateful that her job as a woodworker didn’t require her to be armed, since she was looking as if she’d like to kill something. Or someone, anyway, most likely him. He had that effect on women. “Speechless,” he said. “I like it.”

She was hands on hips now. “I’m here in a business capacity.”

“Disappointing,” he said.

She let out a wry laugh. “Come on. We both know that I’m not even close to your type.”

She was smart. Tough. Sexy. All without knowing it. She was exactly his type. “Why do you think that?” he asked.

“Because I’m not half-dressed with oversized store-bought breasts.”

He grinned. She was teasing him, and for some sick reason he loved it. “You’re also not all that nice,” he said. “And I really like nice.”

“Uh-huh. I bet ‘nice’ is right up there on your list next to, let me guess . . . a good personality?”

He laughed. “So young and yet so cynical.” He tsked, enjoying the hell out of himself. “You’re assuming the worst of me.”

“I have a long habit of assuming the worst.” She slapped an envelope on his desk. “I need to hire you to find something.”

Since she appeared to be quite serious, he picked up the envelope. Nothing on the outside except her name. Inside was a Polaroid picture of what looked like a wooden penguin poised to fall off the Golden Gate Bridge into the water beneath.

“I need you to find that carving,” she said.

He met her gaze as he slid the picture back into the envelope. “Funny.”

“I’m not kidding.”

He took a second look at her. Her light brown eyes were solemn and serious, with shadows both in and beneath them. Her mouth—the one he could still feel under his—was grim. She was right. She wasn’t kidding. He pulled out the photo again. “Okay, tell me what I’m looking at.”

“A three-inch wood carving of a penguin.”

He made a show of looking around the room, beneath his desk, behind his chair.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Searching for the cameras. You’re punking me.”

“No, I’m not! Someone stole this from me yesterday.”

“So call the police,” he said.

“Are you kidding? They’ll laugh at me.” She sighed when she clearly read in his expression that he wanted to laugh too. “I want that wood carving back, Joe.”

“Yeah? Like I wanted to buy that mirror for Molly yesterday?”

She blew out a sigh as if maybe she’d expected this reaction and plopped into the chair in front of his desk. “About that,” she said. “Do this for me, find my carving, and I’ll build you a new mirror for Molly.”

“So . . . we’re making a deal?”

“Yes.”

Interesting. He met her gaze, the color of the whiskey he’d been drinking the other night just before their infamous kiss. And he thought sure, why the hell not. Given that his jobs usually involved death and mayhem along with dealing with the bottom-feeders and scum of the population, this might be some welcome comedy relief. He could help out the cute, crazy chick, and as a bonus he’d be able to get his sister the birthday present she wanted. “Okay.”

“Okay?” she asked, still very serious. “Okay as in we have a deal?”

Joe might be a little slow on the uptake, but clearly there was more here than she was saying. Way more. For one thing, he realized that the shadows in her eyes weren’t just annoyance at having to deal with him. She was unnerved. She was hiding it well, but she was scared, and hell if he didn’t react to that. “When did you last see it?” he asked.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here.”

He sighed. “When did you notice it was missing?”

She thought about it. “Last night right before I closed up the shop,” she remembered. “I last saw it yesterday morning, so it could have vanished at any point during the day. The problem is I keep my purse up front under the counter, but sometimes, if I’m in charge of the retail store, I’m in the back until a customer comes in, which I might not always notice right away.”

“So your purse is often unsupervised.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t bother to point out that she was lucky something like this hadn’t happened sooner. She knew. It was all over her face. As was the fact that she hated having to come to him for help. “Why would someone steal this thing and then taunt you with it?” he asked.

“I don’t know and it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I just want it back.”

“It does matter.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, “I feel like I’m missing all the good parts of this story. Is this going to be like the game Clue? Colonel Mustard in the library with the revolver?”

She stood up. “This isn’t a game, Joe. And if you’re not going to help me, I’ll find someone else who will.” With that, she headed to the door.

Which was when Joe realized he’d finally met someone more stubborn than himself. And according to his friends and family, that wasn’t even possible.