Sparrow

Ever since our wedding night, I’d tried to keep my exposure to Brennan to an absolute minimum and treated him with a suspicion usually saved for convicted terrorists.

I kept a small knife under my pillow, the one I used in cooking class for removing meat from the bone. I added 911 to the speed-dial on my phone. Like a good Girl Scout, I was always prepared.

Today, I kneeled down in the bathroom and ran myself a bath, throwing salts and other luxuries I wasn’t even aware were on the market in the tub. I toed off my running shoes and threw my yoga pants and soaked shirt into a sweaty pile in the corner next to the sink.

Then I heard the front door slam, and my heart gave a leap.

Maria was already in the apartment.

Connor was peacefully (albeit unprofessionally) napping on a sofa in Brennan’s study upstairs after trying to keep up with me on my run.

Troy never came home this early, and he wasn’t the kind of man that you dropped in on for a friendly visit.

This meant alarm bells. Aware this might be someone not so friendly, I jumped into a bathrobe and searched the bathroom cabinets and drawers. Nail scissors weren’t much of a weapon, but they were small and sharp, and capable of taking out an eye. Truthfully, arming myself with scissors in a mobster’s apartment was about as practical as learning how to swim in the kitchen sink, but I wanted to be on the safe side.

Heart hammering in my chest, I cautiously stepped into the gigantic foyer. The whole first floor—kitchen, dining and living rooms— functioned together as an open space, and I took comfort in the fact there were no hidden corners or dark curves a potential attacker could hide behind. Once I heard a soft laugh coming from the direction of the kitchen, my shoulders eased.

The voice was male and vaguely familiar, but it was different than Troy’s. It wasn’t so cold.

“Were you going to attack me with a pair of scissors?” he inquired in a smooth voice.

I stopped in front of him and narrowed my eyes. Brock. He was sitting on an elegant white leather barstool at the stainless kitchen island, sipping a cup of coffee Maria must have just poured for him. Our maid gazed at him with adoring eyes, beaming like he had just found the cure for cancer and stupidity all at once.

I released my grip on the scissors, placing them on the counter and breathing deeply to try and ease the unexpected increase in my heartbeat.

“Well,” Brock said, saluting me with the mug he was holding, “you came prepared.”

“I’m sure you’re more prepared than I am.” I shot him an accusing glare. If he was anything like his law-bending friend, Brock would come armed with enough ammunition to conquer a medium-sized dictatorship.

He stood up, lifting his arms in mock-surrender, and pivoted slowly to show me that he didn't have a gun. His beauty lit up the room, and I hated myself for noticing this. He was clean-shaven, his brown hair a disheveled mess. He wore slim dark denim, a gray crewneck that complimented his eyes, and a white cotton shirt underneath. He looked like the dreams they try to sell you in Cosmo and Marie Claire, like a gift wrapped in sophisticated clothing.

And he’s married, I reminded myself. So was I.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, short of breath.

“I came here to give Maria a few things she needed.” He plopped back down on the stool and took a sip of his coffee. “Then she offered me the good stuff. Can’t say no to caffeine. It’s like middle-class crack. Gracias, Maria.” He tipped his mug at her, winking playfully at the older woman.

“De nada. I go back to work now, mijo.” She planted a peck on his cheek.

I almost stumbled back in shock. Maria was about as motherly as a scouring pad. Kissing and fussing were not in her nature. She might have taken a shine to me because of my cooking, but she scowled at the very mention of Troy and Connor. Both men had a shady job and at least some history with pissing off the law. I didn’t know what Brock did for a living, but if he was granted access to this penthouse, I was guessing he wasn’t a respectable police officer or justice-seeking prosecutor. No, he had to be another bad guy.

But in his case, Maria didn’t mind. I watched her climb up the curved staircase to the second floor, disappearing into the master bedroom, probably to change the sheets, like she did on every visit so far. Not that Troy and I were leaving anything on the sheets that made washing them necessary.

“Did you drug her or something?” I jerked my thumb in Maria’s general direction.

“I only drug people when I really have to.” Brock laughed over the rim of his coffee mug. “Normally, I’m more of a live and let live type of guy.”

I couldn’t help but admire his smile. He didn’t look scary and didn’t act like a silent, unpredictable sociopath. Like my husband. It made hating Brock a challenging task.

I snorted, desperate to gain some control of the situation. Even if it meant being bitchy to him for no reason. “Thanks for sharing, Buddha.”

“Actually…” He looked around him to make sure no one was listening and leaned forward as he dropped his voice. “I wanted to check on you. You seemed upset at the wedding.”

I looked away. He doesn’t care.

He eyed me intently, ignoring my grouchiness. “Talk to me. I’m not one of the bad guys.”

“Pretty sure you’re not one of the good ones either.”

He paused, actually considering my statement. “I’m not here because Troy sent me to sniff around, if that’s what you think. I’m just…worried. Talk to me, Sparrow. How’s married life treating you?”