“Here’s the—”

I stopped just outside of Violet Mitchell’s office, wondering if I should go back to my own cubby and pretend I hadn’t seen her. She was behind her desk, sobbing silently into a handkerchief, her shoulders jerking almost uncontrollably, as if she’d just lost the dearest person in the world to her. As far as I knew, however, Violet Mitchell was an only child whose parents had passed on years ago, and people said she was too mean to ever have a meaningful relationship.

But those people clearly had never seen her like this.

I hesitated for a long moment. I needed to hand in this report. She’d been asking for it for two days now. But I didn’t want to embarrass her by interrupting her tear fest. I was about to turn around and slip back to my cubby and wait a few minutes when she said my name.

“Come in, Remy.”

I tried not to look her straight in the eye as I crossed her massive office to her desk. “The Parker Financial report,” I said, holding it out to her.

“Thank you.”

I nodded, turning on my heel to leave. But I hesitated again. Damn that southern curtesy!

“Are you okay, Ms. Mitchell?”

She made a sound that could have been a chuckle or could have been a sob. “I guess you couldn’t help but see that. I should have known I wasn’t the only one working late tonight.”

“I’m sorry. I just…are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She sat back, regarding me through tear-reddened eyes. “I know most of you first years think that I’m a cold-hearted dragon lady, but I’m not. Not really. I almost wish I was.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She shook her head. “Just a bad breakup. It’ll pass eventually.”

I nodded, anxious to get out of there now. “As long as you’re okay.”

“And Remy? Don’t tell anyone what you saw or what I said. I have a reputation here that I kind of what to keep, you know?” She smiled, but it was clearly forced. I inclined my head, agreeing. Who would I tell, anyway?

Besides, I was in a hurry to get home. Bo was coming over in less than an hour and I had so much to do before he did.

I hit the grocery store on the way to my apartment, snagging the ingredients for my mom’s famous spaghetti recipe. It was pretty basic, but there were a few secrets that not many people knew. And I wanted this to be perfect. Mom’s spaghetti was Bo’s favorite.

I let myself into my twelfth-floor apartment, threw the canned tomatoes and spices into a pan, and heated it to a good simmer before rushing off to the bedroom. I showered quickly, cursing myself for not having shaved that morning. I did it now, moving as quickly as I could without cutting any arteries, before slapping on some lotion and climbing out, quickly slipping into a simple summer dress that fit the warm spring evening without suggesting I’d picked it particularly because of the low-cut bodice and the slit up one leg.

I had just put the dried pasta in a pot of boiling water when the doorbell rang.

“Hey,” I said, wishing I could think of something more seductive to say to Bo every time I set eyes on him. “Come on in.”

“I brought copies of the blueprints and everything else that’s passed my desk. I hope it helps.”

“Helps…?” The whole reason he was there almost slipped my mind. “Of course, that will be a huge help!”

Bo glanced at me, his eyebrows rising slightly with a look of confusion. And then his eyes moved slowly over the length of me, hesitating in a few places, before he turned away. I watched him stroll into the living room, setting the bag of paperwork on my desk before he paused at the sliding glass doors that opened onto the narrow balcony.

“It’s a nice evening.”

“It is,” I agreed. “Beautiful.”

Of course, I wasn’t really talking about the weather or the pink the sky became as the sun started to head over the horizon. I was really talking about him, about the way the jeans he’d changed into hugged his firm ass, the way his hair just barely touched the collar of his crisp blue button-down, the way that shirt was tucked perfectly into his jeans to highlight not only that ass, but his broad shoulders and the muscles that rippled in his arms.

The older the man got, the better he looked.

I had to bite my lip, had to cause myself pain, to force myself to concentrate on something other than him.

“I have wine," I said. "Would you like a glass?”

“Sure.”

I retreated to the kitchen, checking the sauce that was now bubbling away, smelling heavenly with all those spices and the chunks of Italian sausage that my mother swore were the only things that made spaghetti palatable. Everything looked good—a few more minutes on the pasta. I grabbed two glasses and the bottle of wine I’d had breathing on the counter for the last twenty minutes.

Bo was perched on the edge of the couch when I came back into the room. I sat beside him—a little close, but not too close—and set the wine glasses on the coffee table. I poured two generous glasses and handed him one.

“Thanks,” he said, taking an unsophisticated gulp as he looked around my place.

“You haven’t been here since the day I moved in, have you?”

He shook his head. “You did a good job with the décor.”

I smiled, pleased by his compliment. “A few things Jack let me take from the house. Mostly bargain store finds, though.”

“It’s nice. Homey.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

He sat back a little, glancing at me only briefly before looking around the room again. “You should have had a bigger hand in decorating Stone Security’s offices. They’d probably seem a little friendlier if you had.”

“Jack’s decorator did a good job. He just didn’t get across what he wanted well enough.”

Bo snorted. “Jack not getting something across? That has to be a first.”

I smiled, agreeing with him wholeheartedly. Jack has never had a problem getting someone to understand what he wants, especially a woman. But when it came to décor…a person can only handle so much steel and glass.

“I guess my role at Stone Security has always been that of a silent partner. And lots of free legal work.”

Bo swallowed a little gulp of his wine, clearly trying to avoid laughing. I smacked his shoulder.

“Hey, I warned you from the beginning,” he reminded me.

“Sure. You also said they’d eventually come around and include me in more of the decision-making process. But no one around there makes decisions but Jack.”

“And you’re surprised by that?”

I shouldn’t be, but I honestly thought Brent would stand up to Jack a little more than he had. Then again, Brent had been in something of a grief-fueled fog this past year. Now it looked like things were beginning to change for him. Maybe that would mean change for me, too.

“I only think it’s fair that if I’m going to sink most of my inheritance into the place, I ought to have a say in how they run things. Maybe even help run a case or two.”

“You don’t want to run a case.”

“Why not?”

He looked at me for a long moment, then turned slightly away as he drank more of his wine. I didn’t think he was actually going to answer, but then he set his glass on the coffee table and settled back, turning to look at me again.

“It’s dangerous. Sometimes…we do things that even hardened cops wouldn’t do. It’s not a job for a…”

“For a woman?”

“No.” He tilted his head slightly. “We have women on our teams. But…not for a woman like you.”

“And what kind of woman am I?”

His eyes scraped slowly over me for a long, satisfying moment. Then they settled on my face. “You’re the squirt. Remember?”

I slapped his arm at the resurrection of my childhood nickname, one I hated with a passion which caused my brothers—and Bo—to use it even more.

I got up and went to check on the pasta, busying myself by draining off the water and dropping the pasta in the sauce for the last few minutes of cooking. It was the way my mom had always done it, so it was the way I did it.

I went to the fridge and grabbed the bags of ready-made salad and put it bowls, taking dressing from the fridge, too.

“Smells heavenly.”

I glanced over at the doorway where Bo had come to stand, a refreshed glass of wine in his hand. “I wish I could take all the credit, but Mom and Safeway deserve most of it.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I don’t have time to cook. But someday…I always thought that if I didn’t make it as a lawyer, I’d become a chef.”

“You’d be a good one.”

I beamed. That was the first real compliment he’d given me in a long time.

We took the food out onto the balcony and settled in the patio chairs Brent bought me as a house warming gift. We ate in silence for a while, both of us lost in our thoughts. I was trying not to stare at him, not to pay too much attention to his big hands and how the tendons flexed in them each time he moved them. And I tried not imagine those hands on my body, touching my bare skin the way I’d been imaging since the moment I understood what it was a man and a woman did together in the dark of night.

“What are you thinking about?” Bo asked.

I blushed. “You probably don’t want to know.”

He smiled, his gaze falling down to his plate. “Somehow, I think most of your thoughts would be a little above me, anyway.”

“How’s that?”

He tilted his head and regarded me, a little amusement dancing in those perfect eyes. “You’re so much smarter than me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, come on, Remy! You graduated summa cum laude from Stanford University. And then you graduated first in your class in law school! You are incredibly smart.”

“I’m book smart. What you are is so much different, but so much better.”

“What makes you think that?”

Now it was my turn to openly study him. The angle of his jaw, those broad shoulders…they were so distracting! But there was also the touch of insecurity in his eyes that was waiting on my next words before taking root.

“I’ve seen you at the office. That place wouldn’t run half as smoothly without you around. Jack is great, but he’s not a natural leader. You are.”

He shook his head. I’d failed.

I opened my mouth to say something more, but he leaned forward and set his dishes on the table, amusement back when he next regarded me. “What did Jack tell you about Rae?”

“What makes you think I talked to Jack about Rae?”

“Because you were a woman on a mission when you left the cafeteria this afternoon. And I’ve known you long enough to know that you don’t let things go easily.”

“Stacey was good for him.”

“But he didn’t love her.”

“How would you know? Have you ever been in love?”

The question flowed easily, surprisingly easy. But everything in my soul depended on his answer.

He reached over and picked up his wine glass, taking a long sip before answering. It seemed like he needed liquid fortification before answering most of my questions today.

“Not really.”

“Never? Not even one of those fleeting loves that everyone has in high school?”

He knew I knew damn well that he’d been with Becca Foster for almost two years in high school. But he shrugged it off now.

“I don’t think high school counts. Not even college, really. Most people are too young at that age to appreciate what love really is.”

“Brent did pretty well. He and Madeline met in college.”

“There are exceptions to the rule.”

“I know about Becca. And know about that girl in college—what was her name? Colleen something…”

“Callie Prentise.”

“Yeah. You with her for over a year.”

“And I was with Becca for two, but those were just for fun. They weren’t really that serious.”

“So the word love was never exchanged?”

He seemed a little embarrassed by the question. He got up and walked to the rail, leaning over a little as he sipped at his wine again. “What about you?” he asked, deflecting my question with another question. “I know you didn’t date much in high school.”

“Who could with four brothers, a dad, and my brother’s best friend all hanging around, threatening to beat any guy up who broke my heart?”

Bo glanced at me. “What about college? We were all hundreds of miles away then.”

I shrugged. “There were a few.”

“Anyone serious?”

There had been. The only guy who ever dampened my crush on Bo, making me wonder if it was just that: a crush. But it ended badly and then my parents died and…well, all of that tends to put one’s priorities in order.

“Chris,” I said softly.

Bo turned, those curtains in his eyes again even as he regarded me. “Chris who?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I put my dishes down and poured myself another glass of wine. My third. “He was in a bunch of my pre-law classes and we had a couple of study groups together. And we sort of…migrated toward each other.”

“How long did it last?”

I lifted a shoulder, watching those curtains billow a little. “Three years. But then he couldn’t keep up with me in law school and it dented his ego.”

“You ever introduce him to your parents?”

I bit back a smile, remembering the way he charmed my mother and annoyed the crap out of my father. It was the only time I could remember in all my life that they didn’t totally agree on something.

“How many hearts did you break over there in Germany?”

He chuckled, turning away from me again, but he didn’t answer.

I carried our dishes into the kitchen and rinsed them off before sliding them into the dishwasher. When I walked back out, he was on the couch, leaning forward over his knees, dangling his glass from his fingers. I curled up beside him, my legs tucked under me. The split in my skirt fell open, revealing the tan that seemed to perpetually kiss my skin. He glanced at me, at how close I’d chosen to sit beside him, swallowing the last few drops of his wine.

“You loved him, this Chris?”

“It was a long time ago, Bo.”

“Not that long, not if it ended in law school.”

“Does it make you jealous? The idea of me with someone else?”

Tension rushed through the length of his body, a vibration of sort coming off of him at a rate I could almost feel. I lay my hand on his knee and he didn’t brush it away.

I knew my crush on him wasn’t something he was unaware of. I know it was a joke between him and my brothers when I was a child. But it had never come between us before. Above all else, Bo and I were friends. I’d never do anything that would put that in danger.

“Chris was incredibly charming and incredibly smart. He was exactly what I needed at that point in my life. But I wasn’t what he needed.”

“Then he was a fool.”

My heart soared with those words. I might have failed him with my words, but he was saying all the right things, doing all the right things. I slid closer to him, moved my hand a little higher on his thick, powerful thigh. He set his glass down and sat back, his eyes raking over me like fingers brushing over my skin. How was I supposed to take that? Wasn’t that an invitation?

I moved my hand up to his belly—belly being an intense misnomer because what he had was a six pack that was perfection, more than any Hollywood hunk—spreading my fingers over those tense muscles so that I could touch everything all at once. His arm came around me, his hand resting on my bare thigh for a long moment before moving to the couch beside me. I shifted slightly, pressing my body against the side of his. He turned his head toward me, his eyes heavily hooded as he studied me.

“Remy…”

I figured it was now or never. Either he would push me away or he wouldn’t. But there probably wouldn’t be a better chance.

I moved in for the kiss, my lips brushing just barely against his. When he didn’t jerk away or attempt to stand—he didn’t really do anything—I tried again. Our lips brushed again, with a little more intention this time. My heart stuttered almost painfully when he sighed against my lips and turned into me, responding to my touch. In an instant, he went from pretending to be made of stone to melting into me, the tip of his tongue asking for permission to touch me in places that hadn’t been touched in a very long time. And never by him, despite all the fantasies that had fueled my teenage dreams.

When his hand moved back to my thigh…I wanted to get up and do a little jig!

This was Bo and he was touching me and kissing me and…

And then all I could do was respond to his every touch.

He pressed me back against the couch, his hand finding an easy path from my thigh to my hip. He tugged me closer to him even as I buried my fingers in the front of his shirt and tugged him toward me. But, somehow, it wasn’t close enough. He continued to pull me toward him until I was climbing onto his lap. Then his mouth was sliding down over my throat, pressing itself against my cleavage for a long moment before he moved back up, nibbling at this particularly sensitive spot just below my ear before he captured my lips again.

His hands were on my back, moving over me like he couldn’t quite decide what or where he wanted to touch. I almost cried out when both his hands slipped down over my ass, holding me with strength that screamed possession. I moved my hips against him and he pulled me over just a little, tugging me hard against his erection. I sighed with pleasure against his mouth, not sure if it was the way his body felt against mine that sent shivers through my body, or just the knowledge that touching me could do that to him.

It seemed to last forever, his touch; but it also seemed like it only lasted a second from beginning to end. One second we’re kissing like we’re drowning and it’s the only way to fill our lungs with oxygen. The next, his phone is interrupting with the strains of some Gary Allan song.

“Shit!”

He slipped the phone out of his shirt pocket and glanced at the screen, cursing again, words I’d heard come out of my brothers, but never him. Bo was spending way too much time with Jack and Brent!

“What’s up?” he asked almost breathlessly into the phone. He listened a moment, but all I could hear were the rumbles of a deep voices. “I’ll be there.”

Bo wouldn’t look at me as he disconnected the call.

“That Jack?”

“Brent.”

“What’s up? They having trouble with a case?”

“Yeah. They need me back at Stone to organize a team.”

“What kind of team?”

Bo lifted me off of him and stood, brushing at his clothes as though I’d left some sort of residue he felt the need to rid himself of.

“It’s work, Remy. I have to go.”

He was halfway toward the door before I could even get off the couch. I ran after him, touching his arm just as he laid his hand on the doorknob.

“What’s going on? Are Jack and Brent in trouble? Will you be if you go?”

He looked down at me, affection in his eyes before those curtains came down again. Then his eyes were like stone, a beautiful marble that shattered my heart like it was made of glass.

“Forget it,” I said, pulling away from him. “I know you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

“Remy—”

“Just go, Bo.”

He hesitated only a moment, then he was gone, walking away before either of us could say anything we’d regret.

I walked back to the couch and snatched up the wine bottle we’d opened over dinner to pour myself another glass. But the damn thing was empty.

“Story of my life,” I muttered before giving it my best overhand pitch, watching it shatter against the living room wall. And all I could think as I watched it was that I’d just have to clean it up, so why did I bother?