We unlocked a lot of emotional doors and rocked a lot of foundations inside each other last night, and I think Connor’s still uncomfortably digesting some of it. His grouchiness is his way of saying, ‘I’m not denying all that happened, I just need a little time to unpack it, examine it, and figure this shit out.’

  I don’t mind giving him some time, though, because I know what I feel, and I’m a bit more open to happy, lovey-dovey emotions. Okay, a lot more receptive, but he’ll get there.

  I sit up, shaking out my wild and freshly fucked bedhead. “Okay, okay,” I reply. “I might be a little underdressed, though.”

  Connor isn’t wearing anything fancy, just a T-shirt and athletic shorts, but it’s a heck of a lot more than the absolutely nothing I’ve got on. I gesture to my naked body, scanning my own skin. Oops, it looks like I’ve got a fresh hickey on my right boob and a few fingerprints on my thighs.

  Connor looks me over too, seeming quite pleased with himself for the love marks he left behind. “Here,” Connor says, pulling his T-shirt off and offering it to me.

  My eyes dance over his skin too, taking twisted pleasure in the fading pink lines my nails scored over his chest. I know there are matching ones on his back too. We were rough, but in an amazing way I’d love to repeat.

  I inhale his T-shirt, moaning happily before pulling it over my head. I could wear this all day. I twist my hair up into its usual messy bun on top of my head, knotting it in on itself so it’ll stay without a ponytailer. Happy with my new morning attire, I get out of bed and follow him to the kitchen, where the delicious smells make my stomach growl instantly.

  It’s just good rich coffee and sausage biscuits from the oven, but as we sit down with our mugs, his in the seven ways to kill you mug and mine in a plain white one, it feels perfect and homey. My legs are folded up inside his oversized T-shirt, so my knees are near my chin, making it look like I have watermelon boobs, aka big and long. I blow him a kiss over the rim of my mug.

  “Good morning.”

  Connor lifts one brow and takes a sip of his coffee. “‘Morning,” he growls. “Although if it had been your choice, it would have been afternoon.”

  I can’t keep the smile from my lips, especially after last night.

  “What?”

  I take another sip of coffee, then pick up my sausage biscuit. “You like me,” I brag. “No man shares his Jimmy Dean unless he likes you.”

  “Meh, you’re all right,” he deadpans. “I guess.”

  I take a huge bite of my sausage biscuit, chewing noisily. When Connor doesn’t groan in disgust, it only proves my point, and I grin . . . after swallowing my mouthful. “You don’t like many people, you said so yourself. But you like me.”

  The declaration is strong and proud because I’m completely certain. And also, wiggling happily in my chair, making my knee-boobs dance. Because I know for damn sure he likes my body.

  I’ve never felt sexier than when he looks at me.

  “Don’t get a big head about it,” he says with a little snort. “And that chair’s pretty janky. You might want to stop that.”

  “Too late,” I tell him, hopping from my completely solid chair and sitting down in his lap uninvited, crowding into his space. He throws his hands wide, making a sound of surprise as he holds his coffee out to keep from spilling it on me. But as soon as his coffee’s secure, he wraps his arms around me and we settle into something comfortable, both of us with our mugs, me in his arms, with my bare ass pressed against his soft cock in his shorts. “What work do you have to do today?”

  “Prep work,” he says in a roundabout way. “And you?”

  I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

  “I thought your book was going well?” Connor asks. “The writer’s block gone?”

  “Oh, it is,” I tell him, running my fingers through his hair, “But you have no idea how good yesterday felt. And not just the sex. You know what I really want to do?”

  “What?”

  “What if we stay in bed all day—naked, of course—and order food in, watch a movie, and take a nap. Just have a day of total chill.”

  It is a great idea, and we both know it. I can see the temptation in Connor’s eyes, though he scowls. “Poppy,” he says in a warning tone, “we both have goals to meet.”

  “Connor,” I reply, copying his tone. In my own brighter voice, I tease, “Did I mention that ‘watching a movie’ is code for fucking? Out of curiosity, for no specific reason at all, how many times can you go in a day? Like full dicking. Though I’m not gonna argue if your dick gives out and we resort to fingers and tongues.”

  Connor groans, and I feel something nice and firm poking me now. “I’ve never tested it, but now I’d really like to find out.”

  “Great!” I proclaim. “It’s decided then. We walk Nut and Juice, grab some water from the fridge, and get right down to work! And by work, I mean round one.” I frown. “Wait, is it still round one if we had sex last night after midnight? What are the rules here? Should we count that since it was technically today, and this morning, because it was the same twenty-four-hour period? If so, we’re starting round three and you’re already doing great. Let’s aim for . . . what do you think? Six? Ten?”

  He blinks, and I hope he’s imagining three through ten because I know I am.

  “Unfortunately, work is going to have to mean actual work for us both,” Connor reminds me. “You have a deadline. And so do I. And I don’t want to have to save you from an angry agent.”

  He has a good point, but I feel like we’re encased in one of those soap bubbles that float through the air, all shimmery and iridescent in the sunlight, and I’m afraid if I’m not careful, it’ll pop and leave Connor and me falling back to earth only to splat gracelessly.

  The splat is coming though because I want to ask about his work, about what he’s going to steal. But I also . . . don’t. I haven’t forgotten what Connor does or how wrong it is. And he’s said he’s got prep work to do. So he’s getting ready to steal something.

  It’s been ingrained in my mind since I was a child that stealing is wrong. Maybe there’s some leeway for a hungry person stealing bread or something like that, but not swiping electronics at the first available opportunity. Even if he did help me get my laptop back. What about the other people who’ve lost phones, laptops, wallets, and more?

  Can I be okay with that?

  Connor strokes the back of my neck with a thumb, making me shiver with pleasure. “You went quiet.”

  I sigh, laying my head on his shoulder as uneasiness gnaws in my gut. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” he says, but I can hear something in his voice, and I sit up more.

  “Are you? I’m not telling you what to do, but what you do is dangerous. And hurtful. What if you take something from someone violent?”

  Connor smirks. “Like you? You attacked me. Working out pretty well so far.”

  “I’m serious! I’m not saying everyone is innocent, but I don’t want you getting hurt!”

  Connor sighs almost sadly. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

  “You have?”

  He nods. “I do what I do for good reasons. Ones I can’t explain . . . not to you, not my family, not even to myself sometimes. But I’m fine. I promise.”

  “Can you promise that you’ll be careful? That no one will get hurt, especially you?”

  “That’s my MO,” he tells me, kissing me on the forehead. “You know I’ve been doing this for almost half my life at this point, and I’ve only been caught stealing twice? Once, the shoplifting as a kid . . . and then you. That’s a pretty good track record.”

  He sees that’s not what I wanted to hear, so he kisses my nose and adds, “I promise.”

  It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do for now. We finish our biscuits quickly, even though I’d still rather chill all day.

  After a too-fast goodbye, I have to rush home to let Nut and Juice out to do their morning business. I tell myself it’s not a walk of shame but rather a Walk of Fame. Let all the jealous neighbors watch me walk out in his T-shirt, letting everyone know exactly where I spent last night.

  So I hold my head high and add a little bounce to my step, knowing that Connor is watching me walk across the small yard to my own place with my dress and heels in my hands. It’s awkward at best, but then . . .

  “Good morning, Poppy!” a voice calls out. I turn to see my neighbor, Jane, and a handful of other neighborhood residents on the sidewalk a few yards away. They’re all dressed in workout gear, complete with water bottle belts, sun visors, and matching smirks.

  “Hi, Jane. Ladies. How are you?”

  “Not as good as you obviously are,” Jane says, looking down her nose at me. But I’m not going to let her shame me right now.

  “It was a great night,” I reply, agreeing with her that I feel great, satisfied, and boneless with bliss.

  “It certainly looks like it,” one of the women with Jane says. “Too damn long since I had a good night.”

  “Can’t hate on getting some of that,” another voice says, and I follow their covetous looks, glancing back over my shoulder to see Connor leaning against the doorframe of his place. He’s got his arms crossed over his bare chest, his coffee cup in his hand. Wearing only shorts, he exudes sex from his messy hair and scruffy beard to his bare feet. His eyes are heated, boring into mine and then scanning my body possessively. I flush, pushing the T-shirt down, mainly because I feel like I might flash him if he keeps that up.

  “Come on, ladies. We’ve got a mile to go, though I think my heart is already racing,” Jane says, patting her chest at a pitter-pattering pace. “You have a good morning, Poppy.”

  “Thanks,” I tell them honestly. “Have a good walk. I’m gonna . . . go.” I point toward my house, seeing Nut and Juice barking at the front window. “I’ve probably got a puddle to deal with.”

  “Yeah, he’d leave me in a puddle too,” one says before waving to Connor. “And you have a good morning, Mr. Sexy Coffee!”

  Everyone laughs as he lifts the coffee mug in a salute. But it’s me that he watches as I go back to my house, feeling good. The whole neighborhood knows now . . . and nobody’s trying to jump my claim.

  Well, I mean, I can’t ‘claim’ him like a seat at a movie theater, but yeah . . . he’s mine. And I’m his, even if we’ve got things to work out.

  I let Nut and Juice out to do their business and go back inside, heading to my bedroom. I consider taking a shower or actually putting on pants. But I don’t want to. I like that I smell like Connor, that I’m wearing his shirt. So instead, I pull on some short shorts so my ass doesn’t stick to my chair before I sit down and get to work.

  First, I send Hilda an email update, letting her know that I am back on target. I don’t tell her any details about how I got my laptop back, only that it’s all good now and I’m working my ass off and making good progress. She replies instantly, telling me to keep at it and reminding me that the deadline is rapidly approaching.

  “Yeah,” I murmur as I pull out my flash drive, back up yesterday’s work, and go back to my word processor. “No shit, Hilda. I’m foregoing multiple orgasms for this book.”

  But though I bristle at her reminder, I do get to work, and the words pour out of me and onto the screen.

  There’s a knock on the door a couple of hours later, and my heart jumps, hoping it's Connor coming over after all. Or at least coming over for one more kiss, so I hurry to the door, opening it with a smile. “Well now, I suppose I could—”

  But it’s not Connor.

  It’s Detective Jax Carter.

  “Uh . . . Miss Woodstock?” he asks.

  “What the fuck do you want?” I snap.

  He recoils, his face going slightly pink at the less than friendly greeting. “Ahem. Like I mentioned on the phone, I want to discuss some new information about your missing laptop. Can I come in?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, my hands on my hips and my tone getting more and more shrill. “I told you, talk to Hilda.”

  I literally shoo him, wishing Nut and Juice would get their lazy butts off the couch to bark or nip at his shoes or something. But they’re fast asleep, so I block the door as best I can because there’s no way in hell he’s coming into my home.

  I almost say that my laptop’s not missing anymore, but I manage to bite my tongue. I don’t want to help this jerk of an officer when he completely dismissed me when I needed his help.

  “I’m afraid it’s much bigger than that now, Miss Woodstock,” he says, not moving. “It’s come to our attention that your laptop wasn’t the only thing stolen that night.”

  I stop, blinking. “What?”

  Connor didn’t say anything about stealing anything else. Just my bag.

  Detective Carter nods, looking past me into my home like he still wants to come in. “The Black Rose was also taken.”

  I laugh in disbelief. “No, it wasn’t. We all saw it on the stage. It was literally the first thing they checked after making sure J.A. Fox was okay. Remember? They left me spreadeagle on the floor, not giving a shit if I was hurt or flashing my kitty cat to the whole world?”

  His eyes flicker to my legs, and I step behind the door, using it as a shield, but even with a slab of wood between us, I suddenly feel very naked. Holding up a hand, I reach over to my coat rack and snag the longest thing available, a knee-length red trench coat that I bought last year and haven’t worn since. Pulling it on, I step out of my house and knot the belt around my waist, crossing my arms over my chest to glare at him.

  “Eyes up here, Detective,” I growl, literally snapping my fingers in his face when he glances back down, seeming disappointed that I’m covered to my knees.

  His gaze moves back up my body to meet my eyes, but he offers no apology. In fact, I think that smarmy smile is supposed to be charming. As if. “Of course. Actually, the painting you saw was a replica, a fake.”

  “Gee, thanks for the mansplain. If you’ll remember, I write for a living, so it’d be reasonable to assume that I have a grasp on the English language. Although, I would expect a police officer to have observational skills to read people, and you apparently have none,” I muse. Snidely, I tell him, “I know what a replica is.”

  While I’m busting his balls about his rude assumptions, my brain is twisting and turning over what he actually said. But he must’ve been hit on the head one too many times during car chases or something because he’s making zero sense. The painting was right there the whole time. Unless . . .

  “Are you sure it was the original on display in the first place? If it was a replacement, perhaps the original was taken before the dinner began?”

  Detective Carter shakes his head. “We believe the lights going out was a cover for the painting to be replaced with the reproduction. And your laptop is somehow connected.”

  “Wait a fucking minute! You think I had something to do with it?” I say in shock. “How the fuck—”

  He holds his hands out in a ‘calm down’ manner. “No, no. We don’t think that. But you mentioned a security guard.”

  I roll my eyes, even though I feel like I’m quickly moving into the realm of pantomime as the rest of my brain whirls with the fears I’m developing. “Oh, now you want to listen to me?”

  Everything clicks, and I realize that he’s looking for Connor!

  He’s talking about Connor stealing The Black Rose!

  Well, he did steal my laptop. He openly admitted that. Well, after I jumped on his back. But is that connected to his maybe stealing The Black Rose too?

  No. No way. There’s no way he would’ve done that. J.A. Fox must have had a replica on the stage, and someone stole it another time. Or she’s lying. Or she never had it authentically. Or . . .

  What if he did? a tiny voice whispers somewhere deep in the dark shadows of my mind where demons like fear and mistrust live. One painting pays for a lot more townhouse living than a laptop. And he hasn’t exactly been out picking pockets every day since you met.

  I have a mental flash of Connor telling me all sorts of interesting details about the art at the museum and realize that maybe . . . he could do that. Stealing my laptop when he didn’t want the manuscript never did make sense, but I somehow didn’t think about that too deeply.

  Because you were too busy fucking him . . . and falling for him.

  Detective Carter is looking at me expectantly. Shit, he must have said something else. “Sorry?”

  “The security guard?” Carter says, probing. “He’s a person of interest.”

  “Uh, yeah. The Kyle, Chad guy? Did the other security guards figure something out about him?”

  In mere seconds, I’ve gone from thinking there is no way Connor could’ve stolen the artwork to realizing he might have and then pumping Detective Carter for information because I’m scared . . . for Connor.

  Petty theft is one thing. A major art heist is quite another.

  He’s in some serious shit here, and so am I.

  Carter shakes his head, sighing. “Not really. I wondered if you maybe remembered something that could be helpful? Or you said you were going to continue your own . . . investigation.”

  He makes it sound like I’m Nancy Drew trying to play with the big boys. It’s insulting, but I’m too damn scared to be insulted.

  What do I say? What do I do?

  I have all these feelings for Connor, and I know he has them for me too. They’re in the way he looks at me, the way he strokes my neck. The way he only had eyes for me as he toasted the neighborhood walking group with his coffee. I saw it in his eyes, even in that dark truck. I know that for sure.

  My gut struggles with what’s right here, though. At first thought, I should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth and let the chips fall where they may. Lying is wrong. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I want to protect Connor, save him, even from himself.

  So even though I’m not sure it’s the right thing, I cover for him. “No. I never found out anything useful.”

  Carter blows out a breath. “Sorry to hear that.” While it’s a good huff of disappointment, he doesn’t seem sorry. It’s like he expected that I would be useless at tracking someone down.