“Connor, I know it’s going to sound bitchy, but right now, I don’t care about your spoiled rich kid problems,” Poppy says, rolling her hand expectantly. “Get to the art heist part.”

  “I’m getting there, trust me. After I got those connections, I had a corner I’d hang out on, pickpocket the tourists. One day, I overheard this guy in a suit talking on his phone about a gallery showing. He said he was prepared to pay $10,000 for this painting if he could get his hands on it. I don’t know why I did it, but I followed him, saw where he worked and the name on the door.”

  I think back, shaking my head at my stupid luck at my first art job. “The next day, I went to the gallery he mentioned and looked at the art. I’d been to museums on field trips, but that was the extent of my art knowledge then. But I had balls bigger than my brains and figured I could swipe it. So, I watched, waited, and in the end, it was easy.”

  “Easy?”

  I shrug. “You have no idea how slack security can be at galleries. They don’t even realize it because most of the customers are law-abiding, good people who aren’t going to swipe things. In the end, I literally slipped it right under my sweatshirt and walked out. Later that day, I showed up at that guy’s office, told him I had something for him.”

  “You should’ve seen his eyes,” I continue with a shake of my head. “They were big as fucking saucers. He was so excited, didn’t even care that I’d obviously stolen it. He gave me ten grand cash right on the spot like it was chump change, and I walked out feeling like a god.”

  “That had to be a high,” Poppy murmurs, and I hum in agreement.

  “Some, but when it faded, I didn’t feel like a god. I felt like . . . like a devil. I was exactly what my mom and dad thought I was. So I decided to revel in it, stupidly thinking that by rebelling against them, I could lessen the impact of disappointing them.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, I started chasing that high. I did it again, and again. But I was smarter than most. I learned about art, moved from pickpocketing to breaking and entering, and then to more complex methods. I got good. So fucking good. Word spread, and I got hired on for jobs. It would’ve been fine, except . . .”

  I swallow thickly, running my hands through my hair as memories of my high-flying days turn sour.

  “My grandfather died unexpectedly. I was out of town on a job, and Mom and Dad couldn’t reach me. I didn’t know, so I missed the service completely. My dad was furious, and he’s never forgiven me.” I haven’t forgiven myself either, but this is not about my absolution.

  “Dad hasn’t been the same since my grandfather’s death. He . . . retreated, became what you’ve seen of him. Maybe if I’d been here, I could’ve helped somehow. We’ll never know.”

  I sigh, leaving behind the pain of those dark days, the solitary visit I made to the gravesite of the man who’d taught me magic tricks as a kid by pulling quarters from behind my ears. Those sleight of hand tricks came in useful in ways he never imagined. In a twisted way, I feel like my stealing is an homage to him, using the things he taught me, though not exactly in the way he’d intended. I wonder sometimes if he’d be ashamed of me or proud of me.

  “In one way, it saved me. I stopped stealing for the rush and became a professional in all aspects. So, when I was at the dinner, it was for a job—stealing The Black Rose. It was all set up, the replacement, the bag to take the original piece, the trigger on the lights. Everything.”

  Poppy takes a deep breath. “Until me?”

  I look at her, wanting her to see the honesty in my eyes. “No. The plan was to swipe it during the one on ones. I’d set it up that way because people don’t remember who was where as accurately when there’s so much movement. It wasn’t personal. Not then. In my prep, I’d gotten a custom bag, something that would allow me to protect the artwork as I made my escape. Then, just as I pulled it out to do the swipe . . . the goddamn thing split in half. I needed something to hide the original in to get out of the ballroom. I grabbed the closest thing to me. Your bag.”

  Shame washes over me, wishing I hadn’t gotten her tangled up in all of this. It does seem like fate intervened, though. If the bag hadn’t torn, I wouldn’t have needed one. If she hadn’t been on stage getting her picture taken, I wouldn’t have grabbed her bag. If Hunter hadn’t placed me next door, we never would’ve seen each other again. But all of those things happened precisely to get us where we are now. And that, I wouldn’t change.

  “I was collateral damage.”

  I wish I could deny that, but it’s the truth. “I was buzzing so much, so focused on getting out of that hotel, I didn’t even notice the weight of the laptop. It was just a bag until I delivered The Black Rose. But as soon as you told me about it, I wanted to help you get it back. I did help you get it back.”

  “Yeah, you did,” Poppy admits. “But what about The Black Rose? Where is it?”

  I shrug, knowing she’ll be disappointed in my answer. “I don’t keep anything I swipe. The last I saw of it was less than two hours after I took it. Handed it off to my contact, and it’s his problem from then on. “

  “So that’s it?” Poppy asks in disbelief. “You took it and then nothing? Just dropped it off like a pizza? Ding dong, Dominos.” She rings an imaginary doorbell, looking skeptical.

  “That’s the reality of my life. I do the work, assume the risk, but ultimately, the prize is someone else’s. I’m on to the next job with deposits in my account. Poppy, it’s what I’ve done for almost a decade. I live and work in the shadows, disappearing and reappearing at will.”

  It’s a harsh summary of my life. One that I thought I was comfortable with . . . until now. Because I want Poppy to see me, to accept me, even if it’s the worst version of myself. It’s an impossible request, especially of a woman like her. But I’m asking anyway.

  Slowly, I drop to my knees, taking her hands in my own. “Poppy, you . . . I . . . can you understand?”

  “Understand that you’re not a petty thief who swiped my laptop but some super-skilled mega-art-thief come to life?” she asks, sounding impressed, not horrified. And still a bit in denial, even as I admit to the truth. “You do realize how bad boy sexy that makes you?”

  I shake my head, blinking hard to keep myself from falling apart. “Don’t romanticize it, Poppy. This is serious. You said it yourself. You don’t want or need a bad boy. You deserve a good man.”

  “I know. And I know that you, Connor Bradley, are both a bad boy and a good man. If you’d told me I was crazy or tried to lie your way out of it, I would’ve kicked your ass and told you to get the fuck out. But your honesty is unexpected, especially after so many lies.”

  There’s still a hard edge to her words, a reminder that lying to her is not okay. But otherwise, she seems . . . accepting?

  “Seriously?”

  She should be throwing things, screaming and calling the cops on me. Part of me wants to shake her and rattle that sort of drama from her so I can write all of this off as a bad idea.

  Logically, I should be grabbing my go-bag and getting the fuck out of here. But she’s got something I can’t leave behind. My heart.

  Whether she knows it or not, it’s hers.

  But maybe she does because her eyes soften and her hands clasp mine tighter. “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet. I’m still mad.”

  She waits a long moment, letting that sink in, and then she leaps at me, shoving me backward onto the floor before climbing on top of me and clinging to me like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. I wrap my arms around her, my hands cupping her ass, gripping her tightly and never wanting to let her go.

  She bites me on the chin but soothes it over with a gentle kiss, and relief washes through me like a tidal wave. I don’t deserve her, never have and probably never will, but I’ll fuck up anyone who tries to take her from me. For now, though, I cuddle her, letting her cling to me no matter how much Nut and Juice want to sniff around our heads wondering what the hell we’re doing at their level.

  She lifts her head, and I kiss her lips softly. There’s still fear in my heart, still disbelief that this can be real or long-term. Most of all, though, I’m terrified that the darkness in my life will tear her away from me.

  “Are you sure, Poppy?” I ask. “There’s . . . a lot of crazy shit in my life.”

  Poppy shrugs, petting my chest lightly as though she can wipe away the small, and well deserved, swats she leveled there before. “As sure as I ever am.”

  I wish she could say with absolute conviction that she’s sure, but it’s a lot to take in, so that’ll have to be enough for now. I’m still worried about losing her. I’m honestly not sure if I even have her in the first place.

  Carefully, we sit up, and I lean back against the front of the couch with Poppy in my arms. The floor is less comfortable than the couch, but at least in this position, the dogs aren’t sniffing my ear anymore.

  “How did you figure it out?”

  Poppy shifts in my lap, perfectly content to be where she is for the moment. “That fucking asshole detective came by today, asking questions like I would help him out after he blew me off about my laptop being taken.”

  I freeze, stiffening. Poppy feels it and leans back, looking me in the eyes. “Connor, it’s okay. Really.”

  “Somebody came by?” I ask, praying I misheard her. “Asking questions? Who?”

  That’s more questions in a row than I’ve probably ever said, and Poppy’s reaction shows that. Her brows drop down in concern. “Relax. I didn’t tell him anything.”

  I take a deep breath, knowing that if she were going to turn me in, she’d have done it already. I would have been greeted at the door by the cops, and not her.

  “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

  She wiggles, getting up on the couch again, and I follow, the two of us facing each other again in almost the same positions we started this conversation in. But we’re together, I can sense that.

  She starts her story, her hands waving wildly as she recounts the details. “His name’s Detective Jax Carter, and he’s what happened. He’s the guy who was so fucking condescending the night you took my laptop that I flipped my shit right there at the station.”

  I lift a brow wryly, having seen what a shit-flipping Poppy looks like.

  “Yeah, yeah, it was stupid but completely warranted,” Poppy admits. “He called a few days ago too, said he had a lead, but we were already working on it, so I knew he couldn’t know more than we did, and so I told him to go fuck himself. Anyway, he showed up today, started saying they were suddenly interested in what I had to say because The Black Rose was replaced with a replica.”

  I wince, knowing that was the weakness in the whole plan. Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would discover the reproduction for a long while. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough that it should’ve escaped detection for years.

  “Fuck,” I spit out, suddenly much more worried. “What else did he know? What did you tell him?”

  At my poorly worded question that could be taken as accusation, she glares at me angrily. Sarcasm drips from every word as she ticks off on her fingers, “Well, you know, just that I knew who’d stolen my laptop, so he’s probably the art thief too. Oh, and that you live next door and would be home shortly. The SWAT team is in my laundry nook waiting to arrest you.”

  First, I know Nut and Juice would be going apeshit if there were strangers in the house. So the rest of that’s probably lies too. “Poppy. This is serious.”

  “No shit,” Poppy says, going serious again. “But Connor, I didn’t tell him anything. Actually, I tried to get information for you. The other security guards you worked with don’t remember your name, so that’s a dead end. I told him that I hadn’t had any luck finding the security guard myself. There’s no reason for Detective Carter to link my next-door neighbor to the stolen laptop or The Black Rose. So unless you did a shitty job handing off the painting, you should be in the clear.”

  “Other than the bag and the laptop, my part went as planned,” I tell her. “What the other guy did . . . well, he’s even more smoke in the wind than I am.”

  Poppy holds her hands out wide. “All good, then?”

  That should be the case. But it’s too much to risk, both for me and for Poppy.

  I know what I have to do. I have to leave, at least for now. It’s the only way we can both be safe. And above everything, I won’t risk Poppy. She has a life, one that was good and happy before I fucked it up.

  “Poppy,” I say slowly, standing up. “I need to go.”

  Her eyes narrow, scanning mine for what’s going on in my head. “Why? You can trust me.”

  I take a deep breath. “I know. But you can’t trust me. I’m a liar. An asshole. A thief.”

  Poppy snorts and gets up to face me again. “You say that like I didn’t know that from the beginning. I’ve known since the day I tackled you that you weren’t exactly Mr. Rogers.”

  Though I just told her not to trust me, I contradict myself. “I need you trust me and believe that there’s a good reason. I need to go.”

  “Go, go or . . . go?” she repeats, her voice tight and worried.

  I want to lie to her that this is temporary.

  But no more lies.

  Not with Poppy.

  “I’ll try to come back,” I tell her, hoping that it’s enough.

  It has to be.

  Chapter 22

  Poppy

  My house smells like pine and lemons.

  Connor left, and I didn’t crumble. I am furious, stomping around my place and cursing his name with every other breath. And when I get mad as hell, I clean. I take out all my conflicting emotions on the tiles in my shower, nearly scrubbing the finish off them.

  I vacuum until nearly midnight, to the point where I doubt there’s a single Pomeranian hair anywhere but on my dogs. Every dish gets washed to squeaky clean, my stove shines like glass, and by the time I sit down with my angry-weepy jar of peanut butter and a spoon, I think you could do surgery on my kitchen table.

  I eat half the jar until the angry little demon in my belly is quieted, and then I curl up with Nut and Juice. I barely cry, but it doesn’t feel right going to sleep without having Connor’s arms around me.

  I’m sure that I do fall asleep at some point, but it can’t be much more than a short nap before bad dreams have me up just after the crack of dawn. I can’t go back to sleep with the worry and nervous energy pulsing through my veins like I’ve got a Red Bull IV going, so instead of fighting it, I grab a granola bar and sit down behind my computer, pouring myself into my work.

  Time crawls, but my fingers fly. By the time the sun sets, I’ve cranked my way through three whole chapters in record time. After stopping for a bowl of microwave ramen, I go back to work, only crashing out on the couch after Nut and Juice dramatically go to bed on their own at three in the morning.

  By nine the same morning, I’m back up, back to writing. The only time I take breaks is to take Nut and Juice out to wee, and I spend most of that time looking at Connor’s house, his driveway. His truck is gone, the windows dark. Mostly, I know he’s gone because of the void I feel inside. It’s like my heart can feel that he’s too far away, wherever he’s gone to.

  That’s my routine for five days. I’ve ignored Hilda’s calls, simply sending emails that I’m working, skipped a W3AS library session with the girls, and basically just kept my head stuck in the sand to write and then pop up every once in a while to check for Connor.

  The only places I go to are the front yard for the boys, the bathroom to take care of myself, and the couch because I don’t want to sleep in my bed if I can’t have Connor. Oh, and the front door once to pay for pizza delivery since I can’t spare the attention or time to actually cook for myself.

  The knock on the door doesn’t give me any hope, though. The melodic thunk-thunk-thunk isn’t Connor’s style. But I open the door, just in case.

  It’s not Connor or another pizza delivery but my girls. W3AS.

  “What are you—” I ask as Daysha reaches for a hug.

  She instantly recoils, wincing and pinching her nose. “Damn, woman! You smell like sweaty feet!” She fans the air between us with her other hand, subtly pushing me back so the rest of the girls can come in. “What the hell have you been doing?”

  Aleria doesn’t speak, just reaches into the organic hemp burlap tote that she uses as a purse. Out comes a bundle of green herbs, and she goes into my kitchen to look for a lighter.

  “Aleria, what are you doing? I don’t want my house smelling like patchouli-perfumed skunks!” I call out, but Jasmine puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Uh-uh. Daysha’s right. This place smells. Bad. And so do you.” I turn my attention to her, ready to say something snappy, but Jasmine has the decency to soften the critique with a caring question. “Are you doing okay?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I tell her.

  In the corner of my eye, I see Becca happily playing with Nut and Juice, who are always excited to have human attention. She might also be sneaking them treats, but I do know that I’ve fed them, even if I haven’t taken care of myself much the last few days.

  “It’s been days. How’s the book coming?” Daysha asks.

  Aleria comes back in, waving her smudge bundle, which smells woodsy and floral and not at all unpleasant. Still, I go over and open a window.

  “I haven’t showered, I’ve barely eaten, and my dogs are getting cabin fever,” I admit. “But I’m pouring myself into these pages and making progress.”

  “That’s good!” Becca says. “Tell Mommy ‘good job’, sweet boy.” She holds up Nut’s paw, high-fiving herself with it because he certainly doesn’t know any tricks.

  “No, it’s not,” Jasmine says. “Look at her. No offense, babe, but I’d burn that T-shirt if possible.”

  “She’s right,” Daysha says. “Go shower, let us make you some real food, and you can tell us what else is going on.”