Hunter looks at me in surprise, his brows jumping up before they furrow. “My input?”

  I grunt, thinking maybe I shouldn’t have called for this meet and greet. But more than being a resource that provides me with a place to stay when I need to lie low and occasionally help me with gigs when it’s a two-man job, Hunter is about the closest thing I have to a friend. And though this is well beyond the scope of our usual conversations, I’m hoping he’ll be a good sounding board and help me think with my head instead of my dick.

  He recovers his usually stoic expression and offers a second run at a reaction. “What do you have? Hit me with it.”

  That’s more in line with what I expected him to say, but I take a slow sip of my coffee, enjoying making him wait. “I met someone.”

  His insulated cup claps against the Formica bar top, his eyes going wide as he stares at me in shock. “You what?”

  “It gets worse.” I look out the window, purposefully focusing outside because I don’t want to see the reflection of his reaction. I already know what it’s going to be, anyway. “I met her on a job. The dinner.”

  “Son of a bitch, Connor,” he hisses, sounding not only angry but disappointed. “You fucking know better than to do shit like that! What does she know?”

  “Nothing,” I sigh. “Remember I told you there were some complications?” In my peripheral vision, I see him nod. “She’s one of them. I needed a bag and grabbed the closest one I could remember. It was hers, and I didn’t know it, but her laptop was in it.”

  “So what? She can cry it out and go buy a new one. Or you can make a secret donation if you feel that guilty,” Hunter says coldly. “There’s no going back.”

  “She’s my neighbor. She knows it was me.”

  Hunter sits up straight at that, facing me fully after looking around the room. I know he sees what I see . . . every exit, every person having their mid-morning caffeine hit, and every risk factor in the room. But as far as danger goes, there are only two possible threats . . . him and me.

  “You’re serious.”

  “Dead fucking serious,” I tell him. “You put me right next door to her.”

  “Fuck me. Of all the . . .” Hunter trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose. But he recovers quickly. “Well, what does she really know?”

  “Nothing about the job. She thinks I’m a petty thief who stole her laptop, that’s it,” I reply, and Hunter relaxes a hair. “But I need it back. It’s got something on it she needs.”

  I’ll give this to him. Hunter doesn’t ask what or question what I’m thinking further. He just focuses on the important matter at hand. “Where is it?”

  “I gave it to JP. He said he was gonna give it to his kid.”

  Hunter laughs darkly.

  “I need a meeting with JP. Tomorrow. Anywhere, anytime. I need to talk to him, and you’re the only person I know who might be able to make that happen.”

  Hunter scoffs. “That’s not how this works and you fucking know it. JP calls you. It doesn’t work the other way around.”

  “Make it work,” I warn Hunter evenly, draining the rest of my coffee. “Or I’ll track him down myself.”

  Hunter stares at me, taking my measure. “You’ve been doing shit for JP for months, working your way up. And you’re willing to throw away a shot at the big leagues for some piece of ass.”

  I stand, my boots thumping loudly on the floor. For reasons I don’t understand, and really don’t want to understand, my hand is around Hunter’s neck in an instant to stop him from saying anything else about Poppy. Deep in my gut, I know one thing for sure—if Hunter says one more insulting word about her, I’ll kill him right fucking here. He can draw his last breath among the spilled remains of his coffee, for all I care.

  “Set it up, Hunter.”

  His eyes bulge as he nods, his chin digging into my hand. At his agreement, I let him go. Turning to walk out, I realize that everyone in the entire coffee shop is staring at us, and I can see at least two people already reaching for their phones.

  Quickly, I switch into a character and laugh, throwing my hands out. “My bad, folks. He said Backstreet Boys were better than N’Sync. Can you believe that shit? N’Sync forever, man.”

  A few people titter uncomfortably, but someone quietly sings, “It’s gonna be may.”

  Hunter clears his throat uncomfortably but covers for us with a horridly off-key attempt. “Backstreet’s back, all right. Forever and ever.”

  I force a smile to my face, hoping it looks natural and congenial. I’m not known for faking nice and harmless anymore, but I can still pull it out when I need to. Thankfully, it works, and hands fall away from phones, but eyes from all over the room follow me as I walk out the door.

  I’m only a few stores down when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  H: Consider it done. I’ll text with time and place. Hope she’s worth it.

  Me fucking too, man.

  Me too.

  Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something, but after a week of stellar weather and flawless skies, the clouds decide to open up. It’s not a drizzle, either. It’s raining cats and dogs and soaks everything in town.

  But I made a promise, and I have an appointment. Hunter texted me the meet info, and I know I’m putting everything in jeopardy by calling JP like this. I no-show this, it’s not just Poppy that I’m hurting. I’m hurting myself because you don’t make a man like JP stand around for a no-show. It’s not a good investment in your retirement plans.

  Turning up the collar on my jacket, I adjust my baseball cap to shield my eyes and speed-walk out to my truck, hopping in only to find Poppy sitting in the passenger seat already. “Where are we going?”

  “Son of a bitch!” I yell, shocked and surprised . . . and a little scared. How’d I miss her? And does she know how close she came to getting unintentionally punched between the eyes? “How’d you get in here? And nowhere. Get out.”

  “A lady never tells her secrets. And yes, you are. And no. I’m sticking on you like Gorilla Glue.” She presses her palms together with an evil smile. “So, where are we going?”

  “You’re not going. Don’t you have to walk Nut and Juice?”

  “Already did it,” she says, “and they hate the rain.” She tilts her head, reconsidering. “But they love their doggie rain boots. Nut’s are yellow, and Juice’s are red. I considered blue for both because ‘blue boots’ is kinda close to ‘blue balls’, and that’s funny considering their names, but then they’d fight over them. So I got two colors because they fight enough as it is.”

  I blink, not sure what the hell she’s talking about. I got lost somewhere around rain boots for dogs.

  “Where. Are. We. Going?” she repeats slowly and precisely like she’s not the one who spent the last ninety seconds talking about her dogs’ color and weather preferences.

  I growl, sighing in frustration. “I’m going to get info about the laptop.”

  “You mean ‘get my laptop’,” she corrects. I shrug, not worrying about that grammar point, and she growls back. She probably thinks it’s mean and threatening, but little does she know, it’s fucking adorable. “I’m coming along.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  I’m wasting time. By the time I could get Poppy out of my truck, the truck might have rusted to dust around us. JP would definitely think I’d ghosted him. But maybe . . . yeah, it’s possible. Bring her along, ditch her for a few minutes to meet JP, and she’ll be none the wiser. “Fine. But you have to do as I say. These are dangerous people, Pops.”

  She looks a little nervous at that, but she steels her spine and says, “Let’s go.”

  We drive downtown to the University Art Museum where JP requested our meeting. I’m not surprised. UAM’s security isn’t as good as it seems, and I suspect JP or someone in Big’s organization recruits their forgers from the local fine arts program. Also, he’s more interested in the amount of money a piece can bring on the black market, but he’s got a good eye. He has to so he knows if something is worth the risk of obtaining.

  “Let’s check out the ‘Techno Landscapes’ exhibit,” I tell Poppy, knowing that will get us close to the meeting point with JP. Poppy agrees, and we enter the newest of the exhibits. It’s a curated assortment with some professional pieces mixed in with the best of the fine arts student pieces.

  “This one has good technique,” I mention as we stop in front of a painting of a car junkyard. She stares at it, but I can tell she doesn’t see what I see. “The way the steel pipe is so straight . . . you can’t do that without using some kind of edge to guide your brush. But to do that without blurring your base layers . . . that’s skill.”

  “I see it,” Poppy says, looking closely. “I never thought of it before.”

  “Check out the way they use light and shadow too. Here, the shadows make the still-formed car look slightly threatening and oversized while the light on the crushed vehicle remains in the background give them a sort of angelic feel. It’s quite a statement,” I add, leaning in. I note the artist’s name, filing it away. This is a name I could see having to steal one day.

  “You know a lot about art,” Poppy says, giving me a curious look.

  “Art Appreciation 101,” I tell her dismissively, hating the lie but knowing that saying anything more is dangerous. “Same as most people.”

  “Yeah, well, most people don’t get out of that class with much more than an ability to identify a few Monets on sight. But not you,” she says appreciatively. “And I happen to think smart guys are sexy.”

  We’re in dangerous territory again. She just can’t get it through her stubborn head that I’m bad news for her, but I’ve got to keep trying to get her to see reason. “I get the feeling that you think everyone, and everything, is sexy. I’m a thief? Sexy. Family drama? Ooh, baby. Obscure knowledge about boring shit? And you’re dropping to your knees to suck me off in the middle of Techno Landscapes of the 21st Century.”

  She blinks in shock at my vulgar words. Time to seal the deal.

  “Even now, you’re deciding whether you like me talking like that, but your pulse is racing in your neck, telling me everything I need to know.”

  She flushes, not in embarrassment but in fury. Exactly what it should be. “You think you’re so smart? You don’t know anything about me! Maybe my pulse is racing because I’m disgusted by your filthy mouth, you animal. Men should be gentlemen. Like in my books.”

  Gentlemen . . . yeah, that’d be a nice dream for me as well. But life doesn’t operate that way, and I left that option behind a long time ago. “If you expect men to be gentlemen, then it only makes sense that women would have to be ladies.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m not a lady?” she snaps as I look her up and down.

  “Not suggesting. Flat out saying it.”

  “Oh!” she huffs. Her cheeks are nearly the same red as her hair now, bright and splotchy with anger.

  “And your books are fiction,” I remind her bitterly. “Women think they want some sweet, romantic guy to sweep them off their feet and treat them like a princess.”

  “I suppose you know better?” she asks sarcastically.

  “Some women do want that. But not you, Poppy Woodstock,” I tell her in a harsh whisper as a couple walks through the gallery. Thankfully, they catch the vibe in the room and continue on their merry way. “You’d walk all over a guy like that. You need someone strong enough to stand up to you and put up with your mouth. Someone who won’t bat an eye when you do something crazy, running off half-cocked when you don’t even know the whole story. Hell, when you don’t even know half of it.”

  “And you think that’s you? The rough, tough, bad boy who’s going to give me what I need.” There’s hope in her voice, a subliminal admission of the truth in my words. She wants a partner, and in me, she recognizes someone strong enough to be that for her.

  But I can’t let that hope live. Not for either of us.

  “No. I’m going to get your laptop back . . . and then ditch you.”

  The truth hurts me more than it hurts her, but my reaction is visceral and hidden, a skill I learned long ago. Poppy reacts like I punched her in the heart, her face going red, her eyes lighting with flames of anger, and her hands balling at her side. I consider the odds of her hitting me given her previous attack, but I suspect she’s mostly a verbal warrior, so I don’t give her a chance to fire back with words that won’t be true.

  While she’s still prepping her argument, I finish with another bitter dose of truth serum. “And I’ll move on, and you’ll be glad you dodged this bullet.”

  I thump my chest with a palm, hurting myself at the same time. Because I fucking hate it, hate myself for what I’ve become. Not a man but a bullet aimed and fired by the people who hire me. Eventually, I’ll likely die by their hand too.

  For her own good, Poppy doesn’t need to be mixed up with me.

  She inhales sharply, holding my gaze while she holds her breath.

  “Breathe, Pops. You’re trying to look mad, but all you’re doing is pushing your tits all up in my face.” I trace the line of her cleavage with my eyes, licking my lips with hunger for something I know I’ll never taste.

  She’s a connection I can’t have, can’t risk.

  Her chest deflates with a sigh of defeat. “I really was trying to give you a compliment. About your knowing all about the art stuff.” She waves her hand around the gallery we’re in. “I didn’t mean to start a fight. Or whatever this is.”

  “A conversation,” I tell her sadly, though now that I’ve won, I try to soften her loss with a small dose of humor. “The truth. A fight is fists and blood. And so far, neither of us is bleeding.” I hold my hands out to show that they’re clean despite knowing that invisible stains mar my entire soul.

  “Yet,” she threatens with a sly smirk, though I can tell she’s forcing herself to play along. “You never know.”

  She moves on to the next painting, and for some reason, I feel like as hard as I was, as hurtful as I was . . . it’s somehow made her resolve even stronger.

  What do I have to do to convince this woman that I’m the worst thing to ever happen to her life?

  A few minutes later, I see JP in the next room. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know he’s aware that I’m here.

  “Poppy,” I tell her quietly, “hit the bathroom for a minute. Down this hall, second door. Give me five.”

  She looks at me in surprise. “What?”

  “Don’t argue. Do what I say, remember?” I growl. “For your own damn good.”

  She wants to argue, I know she does. I can see the words on her tongue, but at the serious look on my face, she thinks better of it and struts down the hall. I don’t have time to enjoy the show of her hips swaying this time. I’ve got work to do.

  I enter the next room, part of the university’s permanent collection, the highlight of which is a collection of landscapes by an artist who grew up in the area. It’s a bit of a lens back in time to years when cows roamed in fields that now support an airport.

  JP’s studying a piece, sitting down on a bench as he looks at a picture of an old church picnic during the Great Depression. “It’s a lovely piece,” he says. “Nice color,” he adds dryly. Given that it’s a black and white photo on canvas, I think it’s his version of a joke.

  “Sunday Spring,” I offer. “One of my favorites in this collection.”

  “You called this meeting. Supposedly something important? I don’t believe it's this.” He points at the large canvas in front of us, already dismissing it.

  “The last job, the laptop I gave you. I need it back.”

  JP scoffs, side-eyeing me. “No laptop. Gave it to my son. He took it to work.”

  “Shit. Are you serious?”

  JP nods. “Why do you need it?”

  “There’s something important on it that I didn’t realize was there.”

  JP, ever the financially focused criminal, hums in interest. “Valuable?”

  “Not quite, but it definitely has high sentimental value to a certain party,” I tell him, shading the truth a little. If JP thinks he can get money out of this, he will. I’d prefer not to do that if I can avoid it. “Look, I’ll buy your kid a replacement, an upgrade even, whatever. I just need it back.”

  JP eyes me for a long moment, trying to figure out how much I’m lying to him. Oh, I know he’s assuming some lie. That’s the way people like us operate. But it’s in the levels of deceit that we build our trust, ironically. After a moment, figuring he doesn’t have anything to lose, he nods. “You know Pupusa?”

  “Salvadoran restaurant,” I reply, knowing the name.

  “He just got started there, trying to do it legit,” JP says. “He works in the kitchen, name’s Manuel. Don’t fuck around with my kid.”

  Or else doesn’t need to be said. Instead, I nod evenly. “I won’t. This isn’t about that. Just the laptop. I know it’s a big leap of faith to share that info with me.”

  “Very much so.”

  I give him a second nod. “A sign of our friendship.”

  He nods back, but the truth is unspoken. JP and I aren’t friends.

  Colleagues?

  Maybe.

  Accomplices? Definitely.

  But I really won’t hurt his kid. That’s not who I am. Or at least, I try to not be that guy, and in this instance, I can fulfill this promise to JP while fulfilling the one I made to Poppy.

  “I’ll let my son know you’re coming.” JP gets up, rubbing his hands together and leaving without offering a handshake. A minute later, Poppy comes back, finding me sitting alone and still studying the landscape.

  “Let’s eat.”

  She turns her head, looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. I’ve intentionally pushed her away, treated her like crap . . . and now I want food?

  “Seriously?”

  Chapter 12

  Poppy

  He doesn’t say much on the drive across town, but that’s okay. Because despite all his harshness, all his mean words, the fact that I’m sitting in the passenger seat of his truck says a lot.