Derrick’s eyes widen. “No, man! N—”

  Derrick’s words turn into a scream of pain as Connor grabs Derrick’s left index finger with his free hand, twisting hard and fast and breaking it.

  The other two guys hiss sharply.

  Holy shitballs! Connor did that like it was nothing, without a blink!

  Staring wide-eyed at his oddly bent finger, Derrick bawls out, “Pawned it, man! Down on the corner.” He starts sobbing, his bravado lost and the bully fully put in his place. “I fucking swear!”

  One of the other guys interjects, corroborating Derrick’s story. Well, the second one. “It’s true. He went down on his break. Came back with a few Benjamins.”

  Connor pushes off Derrick, who straightens quickly, trying desperately to act like nothing happened even as he cradles his broken hand. Suddenly able to breathe again, Derrick finds his balls, which had crawled up deep into his body cavity. He looks to me, smug arrogance returning to his sneering expression as he gestures wildly with his uninjured hand, scant inches from me. “Guess I did have it wrong. It’s not you who needs to be on a leash, bitch. It’s him.”

  Connor moves fast as a flash again, the heel of his hand catching Derrick under the nose and sending the back of his head rapping against the brick side of the restaurant. Derrick drops, blood gushing instantly, and he tries in vain to cover the mess.

  “Fuck,” he hisses, already sounding stuffed up from the blood dripping onto the concrete. I guess his nose hurts more than his finger because he doesn’t pay the dangling appendage any attention.

  “Don’t touch her,” Connor reminds him. Derrick didn’t, but he came close. Too close for Connor’s liking, though I’m not sure what that means. Connor crowds in close to Derrick but talks to the entire small group of men. “And don’t fuck with Manuel. He’s a good kid. Or you’ll wish I were the one coming back.” The smile that sweeps across Connor’s face is pure wickedness, like he can’t wait to see what malevolence awaits Derrick if he so much as looks at Manuel wrong. His words might not scare the men, and his beating up Derrick might not either, but that creepy look definitely has them pissing in their pants.

  Without waiting for any confirmation from the trio of kitchen dipshits, Connor takes my hand, firmly but gentler than I would’ve expected from his cold, vicious manner with Derrick.

  Following along behind him, we walk through the kitchen, through the dining room where he tosses Manuel a chin nod, and out into the parking lot. He leads me to the passenger side of his truck, opening the door for me. It’s not gentlemanly and kind. Oh, no, once the door is open, he virtually shoves me inside before slamming the door again.

  Connor gets in and starts the truck, placing his hands on the steering wheel. He’s squeezing the leather wrapped wheel so hard, his hands are turning white. Finally, he lets out a deep breath, staring at his hands like they don’t quite belong to him.

  “Let me have it,” he demands.

  I blink in confusion. “What?”

  “For the shut up comment. Let me have it.”

  Is that what this is about? He just fucked this Derrick guy up, and he’s worried about that comment? “To be clear,” I tell him quietly, almost amusedly, “you told me to be quiet, not shut up. Same, but really different too.”

  Connor looks at me in shock. “Either way, I’m sorry. But I just needed you to be quiet for one minute while I got the info we need.”

  I was taught that an apology isn’t an apology if it’s followed by a ‘but’. In this instance, I’m not sure that’s true. Connor does seem sorry, and maybe he’s a little bit right. He was definitely the better choice to get the info.

  Plus, he said ‘we’ . . . not him, not me, but we! And that alone makes the ‘but’ seem like a teeny, tiny three-letter word I can ignore. This time.

  “Apology accepted. Now let’s go to the pawn shop.” I pause, chuckling to myself. “That is something I never thought I’d say, especially on a date.”

  Connor barks out a rough laugh. “This isn’t a date.”

  I don’t argue, but he’s wrong. This is so a date. Maybe the best date I’ve ever been on, which might be sad to some, but I think it shows how awesome I am. Okay, and Connor too. Other than the thief thing, but he’s making that right as we drive down the street, so it probably . . . mostly doesn’t count.

  Chapter 13

  Connor

  I’m a jumble of thoughts and confusing emotions as we drive the short quarter-mile down the street to the nearest pawn shop. On one hand, that asshole deserved everything I gave him and more.

  Laying hands on a kid? Hell, breaking his finger and maybe his nose might have been a gift to Derrick. If JP had learned about what happened to his son, the consequences could have been fatal.

  But was I doing it just for Manuel?

  Deep down, I know the truth. I didn’t go off until Derrick started messing with Poppy, who is sitting, happy as a clam, in my fucking passenger seat like she didn’t watch me turn violent in a flash.

  This is just ten kinds of wrong.

  The pawn shop’s a sad looking affair, with dirty windows and an old-school fluorescent red and white ‘three balls’ sign. The awning is faded and torn in spots, and the yellow vinyl looks like it’s seen quite a few better days.

  For most people, these would be bad signs. This is a pawn shop that’s not doing a ton of business. But that’s a good thing for us. The guy who owns this place isn’t a ‘pawn star’, so he’s not going to be moving merch frequently. Hopefully, that means there’s a good chance the laptop is still here.

  On the bad side, though, I can tell the pawn shop is closed for the day even from here. Still, I get out and go to the door, knocking so hard it rattles. Poppy follows me, peering through the window.

  “They’re closed. Nobody’s here.” Poppy states the obvious, but I don’t give up that easily.

  “They might be in the back, counting up the day’s take.”

  It’s a low chance option, but Poppy takes my encouragement to heart, slapping the window hard. She bangs even louder than I was, going so far as yanking on the handle like it’s the only thing standing between her and life. I guess it might be if her laptop is still inside because it has her life on it, the manuscript.

  But no one comes from the back, and she wears herself out, turning around and sagging against the door in defeat. “Fuck!”

  “We’ll come back tomorrow,” I promise. “We can get it then, and in the meantime—”

  I stop as Poppy looks left and right, up and down the street. There are a few cars, a dozen or so people walking, and not much else. But when Poppy looks back at me, there’s an evil glint in her eye that worries me. It’s a surefire indicator that she’s about to do something crazy.

  She whispers, though no one is close enough to hear her, “Let’s break in, smash and grab style.”

  For once, my knowledge of crime may actually be useful in preventing a crime. Go figure.

  “Sure,” I deadpan. “We’ll have to be fast, though. A place like this has an alarm for sure. Probably calls the police automatically.” I squint as though calculating, “ETA of police, based on the closest precinct, is around six, six and half minutes tops. Doesn’t leave us much time to search, bust open the display case and make sure it’s yours, possibly break into the safe so we can fuck up the video camera footage, and get out clean. Just so you’re prepared, it’s not as simple as busting down the door or breaking the window.”

  Poppy rolls her eyes. “You could’ve just said no.”

  “You would’ve argued,” I point out with a smirk. “This way, you know I’m right.”

  “You’re probably right.” She sighs, not yet willing to give up on her wish of getting her computer back today. “We’re coming back tomorrow first thing.”

  It doesn’t sound like a question, but I answer it as one. “Promise.”

  I stop, blinking as I turn away from Poppy before she sees the concern on my face. I’m doing a lot of promising lately. It’s a bad habit to get into. I’m not a man who makes promises because I’m not a man who keeps them.

  I can’t.

  But something has changed. Without thinking about it, I open the door of my truck and offer her a hand to climb in. Smartly, she doesn’t call attention to it, but she doesn’t have to. I already know that I’m walking a dangerous tightrope, but I can’t seem to hop off. I’ve known for a long time that I’m an adrenaline junkie, but I never considered that a person could surprise me at every turn in a way that makes excitement surge in my bloodstream the way a job does.

  I drive back to our neighborhood, pulling into my driveway. The rain’s stopped by the time we get there, although the steel gray sky says we may not be done with the downpours yet.

  “Want to come in?” Poppy asks when we park. “I mean . . . come on over.”

  I shouldn’t. I should just walk up my little patch of sidewalk and into my house. I told her that she couldn’t break into that pawn shop, but I could do it easily. I’ve already been thinking about how I might be able to go back tonight, and the few hours between now and then would be the perfect time to prepare.

  But there’s something in her face, in the way her hair is still half plastered to her head since the overhang at the restaurant didn’t stop all the rain, that has me nodding. “Yeah.”

  She smiles a little but quickly turns so I can’t see it, and we walk next door to her place, where she unlocks the door and opens it up for me. My immediate impression is that Poppy’s idea of putting things away seems to consist of piling her crap up, sticking a hand grenade into the middle of the pile, and pulling the pin.

  It’s not really that bad, just . . . cluttered. Her dining area’s clearly her work office, with a full-sized whiteboard covered in scribbled notes and magnets with scraps of paper tucked under them. Next to it is a corkboard that looks like a full-on conspiracy theorist’s dream, with pictures of celebrities and random model stock photos connected with bits of colored string.

  “Wow,” I breathe, part impressed and part scared. This is similar to what I do when I’m planning a job, but I usually keep it in my head. It’s safer that way. This is . . . all out there in the open for anyone to see her crazy.

  Poppy looks where I’m focused and rolls her eyes, but her laugh is tight, betraying her nerves. “I swear I’m not some weirdo conspiracy theorist. It’s my design board for my books. When I make a character, I create a picture that best fits how I picture them. The string is how I can remember their relationship with other characters at a glance. The whiteboard’s my written information.”

  “That’s—”

  I’m interrupted as twin yapping sounds fill the air, and suddenly, two furry balls of insanity are streaking around the room, dancing around everything before realizing that there’s a new human inside. Immediately, I’m swarmed with bouncing, sniffing, and yipping.

  “Nut and Juice.” Poppy introduces them like I didn’t already figure that out.

  They’re maniacs, but I know how to deal with that. I don’t bend down to pet them, but instead, I snap my fingers sharply to get their attention and then hold out a palm. They calm instantly, tongues hanging out and attention locked on me. “Good dogs.”

  Poppy looks at me in wonder, “How’d you get them to do that? They never do that for me.”

  I shrug. “I guess they recognize an alpha.”

  She hums disbelievingly, taking it as a joke. I’m only half kidding.

  “I wanna show you something,” she says, spinning and going into the kitchen. “Come here.”

  I don’t take orders from many people, but I’m curious to see what she’s got up her sleeve. If she even knows, I think wryly. Seriously, the more time I spend with Poppy, the more I think she lives her entire life fifteen seconds at a time.

  In the kitchen, she kicks out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. I scan the room quickly, noting that the layout is similar to my own place and actually a lot cleaner than her dining area, then lower to the wooden chair.

  Poppy digs around in a drawer and pulls out a little bag that looks like a travel toiletry kit before coming over to sit beside me. “Hand?” she says, holding hers out.

  I lift a brow in question, not moving a muscle. She growls, cute as can be, and reaches for my hand. I have plenty of time to move away from her, but I don’t. I’m too curious about what’s she’s doing.

  It’s not until she lifts the hand up and looks at the heel of my hand and starts peering at my fingers that I realize what she’s doing. She’s checking me for injuries, and her bag is her first aid kit . . . in a blue and yellow vinyl shaving kit bag.

  Because Poppy.

  “It’s fine,” I tell her, but I don’t move away. Not when I’m enjoying the feel of her fingers dancing over mine, testing and teasing as she searches for any signs of trauma. I’m not used to people taking care of me. It’s . . . nice, though warning bells are sounding in my head telling me not to get used to it.

  “I’m sure it is, tough guy. But that guy’s nose has probably seen more snow than a Colorado mountaintop, and the last thing I want is for you to get some weird infection from his snot and blood splashing into a hangnail or torn cuticle on your hand.”

  I blink, processing what she said. “That’s . . . very specific.”

  Her lips tilt down, not quite a frown but definitely taking that as an insult. “I told you, I create entire scenarios in my head, taking notes on real ones and pretend ones, adding details and drama at every turn. It’s what keeps my life—and my stories—interesting.”

  “Here,” she says, opening her kit and taking out a little bottle of hand sanitizer and grabbing a napkin from the table. She uncaps the bottle and puts a dab on the single tiny cut she’s found, letting it ooze in and start to sting before she wipes it away. “And now . . . Neo.”

  Out comes the Neosporin, and then a Band-Aid to top it all off. When she’s done, I flex my hand, nodding. “I think I’ll live.”

  “Very funny,” Poppy says, not letting go of my hand. “Connor, what you did with Derrick . . .”

  Her voice trails off, and she looks up at me with questions in her eyes. Wordlessly, she takes my uninjured hand and pulls it in closer, laying it on her damp T-shirt over her heart. I can feel the pounding thrum racing beneath my palm, and she’s leaned in so closely, I can hear the jaggedness of her breath.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I rasp, trying to focus on calming her nerves after seeing me that way. I shouldn’t care, but fuck knows, I do. She already knows I’m an asshole, but I don’t want her to think I’m a monster too.

  Slowly, I lift my injured hand, praying she doesn’t flinch away. When she stays still, I push a wild lock of red hair behind her ear. I freeze when her eyes close and she leans into my touch. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “I’m not,” she whispers as she opens her eyes. She turns into my hand, looking at the bandage before pressing a gentle kiss just above it. Her lips against my skin are so soft I think I might’ve imagined it, but the feel of her mouth anywhere on me sends electricity shooting through my veins.

  “Poppy.” It’s more of a sound than a word, a rough growl deep in my throat.

  She releases my injured hand to cover the one on her chest with both of hers, holding me there. “My heart is racing, but not because I was scared. Or not scared of you. I was scared for you. But I didn’t need to be, did I?” She swallows thickly, and I don’t know what I say, but it must be the right thing because she goes on. “Thank you for protecting me when I jumped in half-cocked.”

  Her lips lift as she uses my words to describe herself, but she’s pressing my hand lower on her chest to the warm breast beneath.

  Totally on instinct, my hand curves, cupping and molding itself to the soft weight, and I can feel the pebble of her nipple against my palm. I knead her flesh, learning and memorizing her responses.

  “You’re a hot mess, Poppy,” I growl honestly, standing up and pulling her with me. I press her against the countertop, caging her with my arms on either side. “But nobody says shit about you as long as I’m around.”

  She gasps, and I capture the sound with a kiss, pressing my lips to hers to feel the velvety softness. It’s scary because the only reason I’m doing this is because . . . I want her.

  Desperately.

  She moans hungrily, reaching up to cup the back of my head and pull me closer. Her tongue takes the initiative this time, demanding entrance, and we twist around each other, the kiss quickly becoming hot, erotic . . . and very, very serious.

  Before was a cover, a necessary tool to hide the drama from my family. This is not a cover or pretend. This is hot, sexy, and most of all, real. Which is what makes me stop, pulling away to hold myself against the other countertop even if every cell in my body is saying to take what Poppy offers and give her what she wants. What we both want.

  But I don’t do real, ever. It’s too dangerous . . . for me and for Poppy.

  “I can’t. We can’t,” I pant, my body fighting my every syllable. “I’m no good for you, Poppy.”

  “Says who? And who says I want someone good for me?” she asks, her voice dripping with desire and lust. “Maybe I want someone bad, very, very bad.”

  My poor fucking balls.

  But I stay pulled back, not moving a muscle. My hands clamp down on the edge of the countertop behind me as she comes closer, my desire warring with my instincts. She’s making it nearly impossible to be a good guy here, especially when she kisses along my jaw, her hands curling into the hair at the nape of my neck. I could lift her onto the countertop to pull her jeans down, spread her legs, and feast on her flesh, or bend her over the wooden chair and take her roughly from behind, or tell her to get on her knees and suck me. I think she’d welcome any of those options, or even all three.

  But not like this. She deserves better, and though she’s all-in right now, eventually, she’ll realize that I’m right. And I’ll be the asshole who took advantage of her.