Nobody gives me any shit when I call out of work that evening.

I've been a loyal, dutiful employee who's made the hospital slightly less chaotic for almost a year now, and I've got plenty of sick days stored up. I never thought I'd be using them to rig somebody's apartment with security enhancements, but here we are.

I got a feel for the equipment Parker helped me get my hands on when I set it up at the diner. There are three cams running now. One in the kitchen that gets a view of the back door. One in the seating area that also keeps an eye on the sidewalk leading up to Gracie's. And one out behind the diner, where some of the workers go out to smoke or chat.

There's a motion-activated light out there, too, along with one that illuminates the front walkway, bathing half the parking lot in a bright yellow glow. And while Eric already has a contract with a security company—for all the good it did him here—he let me install a couple of instant call buttons. One beneath the counter, right by the register, and another in the kitchen. That way if his employees are ever faced with something dangerous, they can press it to register an immediate alarm with the company. If nobody answers the resulting call, they'll dispatch a deputy to check it out.

I think it's given him and everybody else some peace of mind. As the day wore on, Eric seemed to relax and even started joking with me about all of the weird-ass things he was going to make me eat to expand my palate.

I don't think he's completely sold on the idea, but he didn't tell me not to come, so I bring my bag of stuff up to his apartment once I know he's home for the night, just a little after ten. He opens up right away.

"Hey, come on in. I've already got dinner going."

Stepping into his place, catching the citrusy scent of his aftershave or cologne or whatever it is, I'm instantly transported back to last night and that needy kiss we shared.

It was wrong. Wrong of me to take advantage. But I'd be lying if I said it hadn't felt damn good. It's been a long time since I've been kissed like that, and it woke up something inside of me that fucking roars to life at the scent that's now tied up in that moment.

Calm the fuck down, I tell myself, focusing on the reason I'm here. Not to act like a randy fuck who hasn't gotten laid in months, but to make sure Eric feels safe in his own home.

"Smells good," I say, ignoring the fact that I don’t just mean dinner. But the food smells good, too. Like bacon and garlic and cinnamon. "Doesn't seem like you're making good on that zucchini noodle threat."

"Funny you should mention that." He grins and heads into the kitchen, retrieving a big yellow… vegetable, I think? "Have you ever had spaghetti squash?"

"Uh… no?"

"I've got some roasting now, and I'm making a light sauce to toss it with."

Not sure how I feel about that. I decide to ask about something I know I'm on board with. "And the bacon I smell?"

"I'm just rendering it down so I can cook the pork chops in the fat. I’m also making an apple chutney, and I'll throw together a salad just to pretend like we're eating a little healthy," he says with a grin.

"Sounds a lot healthier than I normally eat. Usually just nuke a frozen meal at work and then drop by the diner after."

I know it's a little pathetic, but I'm a single guy who got used to working long shifts. I lived off microwavable meals and fast food. We all did. The only guys who got steady, home-cooked meals were the desk jockeys.

Eric looks devastated, though. He's staring at me from over the kitchen counter, his brow furrowed. "Please tell me you cook at least some of the time. Even something simple?"

"Does baking a frozen pizza count as cooking?" I ask, setting the bag down on the table and starting to pull out everything I'll need.

"You're killing me!" he exclaims, but he's obviously not too bad off. I can hear him chopping up something like a madman.

"I was raised by a single mom who worked three jobs sometimes just to make ends meet," I say with a shrug. "She didn't have time to cook, and she sure as hell didn't have time to teach me to do it. Most I ever learned how to do was to boil water for mac and cheese."

He's quiet at that admission, and I look over at him to see him looking at me. It's not pity in his eyes, but it grates on me all the same.

"It's not like I was some poor, malnourished kid who never learned to fend for himself. Mom worked hard so I could have a good life."

"No, I know," he says, shaking his head. Whatever he's cut up—apple, I guess—gets transferred to a small pan along with some butter. "Sorry. I'm a member of the Single Mom Club, too. It's just cooking was what my mom always did to relax. As soon as she got home, she'd drag me into the kitchen and we'd make something. It's hard for me imagine someone not being able to cook, or not wanting to, but I'm not judging you."

He's probably judging me a little bit, but that's okay. This conversation is a complete turnabout from last night, and even from the fake-ass bullshit he was feeding me this morning. It feels like we're just shooting the shit as friends here, somehow avoiding the elephant in the room.

We can't avoid it forever, though. This isn't a social call, and I've got work to do.

"Where do you want me to set up these cameras? And what's the wifi password so I can get them on the network."

He tells me, and shows me where he wants the cameras. One in his bedroom, and one in the living room. When he goes back to cooking, I start setting them up.

These are different from the ones I installed at the diner. They're more like nanny cams. Easy to conceal, and they hook up to a network so a live feed—and archived video—can be viewed on a laptop or tablet just by downloading an app and registering each camera.

I set up the one in his living room first, pointing it toward the door. It only takes about fifteen minutes to get it online, and I check the feed on Eric's laptop. The one in the bedroom should go just as quick, but stepping through that doorway is like stepping through a portal.

The rest of Eric's apartment is decorated, but this space is obviously his space. There are more pictures here from all around the world, along with souvenirs and other things he's collected from his travels. There's an ornate rug that looks comfortable as hell, and Eric's bed is made with black, silky sheets that just beg to be touched.

And as soon as I start thinking about that, it's impossible not to think of other things. Things I don't need to be thinking about, like how those sheets compare to the smoothness of Eric’s skin.

I clear my throat, pulling my attention back to my task. The camera's easy enough to set up on his dresser, right by an incense burner, and I do my best not to think of just what footage it could catch if it was pointed a little more to the left, with the bed featuring more prominently in the frame.

"How's it going?"

He's closer than I was expecting, and his question makes me jump. When I turn to face him, there's an amused expression on his face as he stands in the doorway.

"Done with the cameras," I say gruffly. "Gotta install the deadbolt and the call button."

Those I'm able to take care of without any inappropriate thoughts, and Eric goes back to finishing dinner. I'm not sure how much time passes, but through dumb luck we managed to sync it up pretty well. He's pulling that weird squash thing out of the oven right as I'm finishing with the deadbolt.

After the longest five minutes ever—the meat still needs to rest and the squash is too hot, he says—we sit down at his kitchen table. Or I sit down, and Eric brings me a plate filled with a giant pork chop that rivals a lot of steaks I've seen. There's a heaping pile of "noodles" beside it, and a little salad that I think might be made with arugula? I don't know greens all that well.

Everything smells amazing, though, and I'm salivating as I wait for him to get his own plate ready.

"You really didn't have to go to all this trouble," I tell him, eying the squash dubiously.

"No trouble. I'm a lot like my mom. Cooking's what I do to relax, and cooking for another person is just… I don't know." He smiles at me over his shoulder. A small, genuine smile that warms me from the inside out. "It's a nice experience."

"Well I apologize ahead of time for the massacre that's probably gonna happen on this plate." My fingers twitch over my fork, impatience and hunger getting the best of me.

Eric just laughs. "Hey, go crazy. If you're not tearing it apart like a ravenous wolf, I haven't done my job."

It's a good thing he said that, because as soon as he sits down at the table, I'm on that pork chop like I haven't eaten in weeks. And it's so, so fucking good. Juicy and full of rich, meaty flavor. It practically falls off the bone, and the apple chutney is tart and spicy with a warmth to it that just goes perfectly with the meat. I don't come up for air until I'm mostly done with the chop.

"So?" Eric asks, his brows lifting in amusement.

"It's amazing," I say with a sheepish smile. "Really fucking good."

I didn't notice it at first, but he's watching me as I eat. Not really staring, but he keeps glancing over at me and smiling this secret, sexy sort of smile. It's like he's getting pleasure from watching me enjoy what he's cooked, and every time I see that little smile, it does things to me.

Jesus. I do not need to be turned on by somebody's reaction to me eating. Especially not Eric's. I settle down, chewing my food like a normal human instead of inhaling it. That's enough for Eric to lose interest, his eyes going to his own plate.

"So how'd you get all this gear?" he asks. "When you said you had connections, I imagined you meeting some shady guy in an alley and shopping out of the back of his stolen van."

I snort at that, swallowing my bite before I answer. "I don't shop outta stolen vans. Too suspicious. Vehicle at least has to be legit."

Eric's laugh is warm and unguarded; a big change from the way he was acting this morning. And maybe that's what makes me feel like I can take a risk and open up a little.

"I used to be a cop," I tell him, that word sinking like a stone in my gut. "Detective, actually. With a precinct in Lexington."

His eyes widen at that and he looks at me like he's trying to figure something out. I'm already expecting the question that comes next.

"And you gave that up to come here?"

It's not as invasive as I thought it'd be, so I just answer, "Needed a change of pace," and Eric leaves it alone.

We lapse into pretty comfortable silence. I clean my plate like a good boy, catching a few more glances from Eric as I do. After I’m done, I ignore his protests and go to pre-wash everything before loading it into the dishwasher.

Of course, that’s when it gets a little awkward. We’re both in the kitchen, and I’ve got my hands in my pockets, just looking around at the decor. It’s not like I’m afraid we’re going to get into a situation like last night, but I’m not really sure how to end this encounter.

“Need me to show you how to use the camera app?” I ask.

“I’m sure I can figure it out.” Unless I’m crazy, he’s feeling just as uncertain as me. “I can give you a call if I run into any problems.”

I nod, shoving my hands even deeper into my pockets. “Sure. Yeah. And if anything happens.”

It’s a sobering reminder for us both, I think. I had a good time tonight, and somewhere in there it got lost just why I was setting up all this new security shit. Eric’s not safe. Everything I did today is a good start, but this isn’t going to stop until that asshole Blake is locked up again.

Which reminds me, I need to give Parker a call.

“I better head out,” I say now that I actually have a purpose. “But don’t feel weird about calling if you need. Day or night.”

“Yeah, you can’t stop me from feeling weird about it,” he says with a tight smile. “But if I need to, I’ll do it.”

“Fair enough.”

He walks me to the door, and I awkwardly shuffle my way through. “Thanks for the food,” I say once I’m out in the hall.

“I consider it a public service,” he says with a wink.

I chuckle under my breath and shake my head, my mood lightened as I make my way out to my car. It snowed a little while I was inside. Just enough to be annoying and cold and wet, but not quite enough to give off that wintry feel. I can’t be mad about it, though, and I don’t really lose my good vibes until I slide into the driver’s seat and dump my phone onto the passenger side.

I must have hit the power button, because it lights up with a missed call from Parker. I need to get back to him; confirm that I actually do plan on showing up to give my testimony before a grand jury, as much as I don’t want to.

But I also need to make sure what happened to Maria doesn’t happen to Eric. Grabbing my phone, I dial Parker’s number. It goes straight to voicemail, and I let out a breath.

“I need to call in a favor. I’ve got a first name, a location, a time frame, and a charge. I need you to find the rest of it for me.”