Having another night with Archer.
Instead of acknowledging him, I turned to Hayden and continued our conversation. The project was nearly complete, and the bar with its background music and din of people joking and laughing, drinking and talking, was an easy place to haggle out those final few details.
Hayden was sent on his way with plans to let himself into a few high-powered servers and report his findings.
It would likely take him all night, but if they were clean, then I could report to KTS that the person they had us investigating wasn’t connected to their criminal ring.
We’d have a couple of days off and then move onto the next project.
Which, if I was remembering correctly, would be trying to uncover information to prove whether a powerful CEO was cheating on his wife (soon-to-be ex-wife) so she had materials for the divorce proceedings.
Look, not all of my life could be noble or glamorous.
The majority of it involved me squinting at a screen, seeing shit I couldn’t unsee, and then really hating my job.
The minority, the piece that kept me going, aside from the fact that I’d fought tooth and nail for it, had clawed myself into financial independence and forced my way into a seat at the table was that sometimes I did real good.
Sometimes we helped in ways that didn’t involve divorce decrees or clearing people who weren’t particularly squeaky clean but who hadn’t committed bad enough crimes to be the big fish we were after. Sometimes we found kids who were missing and were able to reunite families. Sometimes I found money that was stolen and was able to shift some things around and have it magically make its way back into the proper accounts. Sometimes I caught evidence on cameras or in emails and was able to pass it onto police forces to solve outstanding cases.
Those were the reasons that kept me moving forward.
Despite all the things I couldn’t unsee.
Tonight, however, Hayden clapped me on the shoulder, pushed off his stool, and moved to the other end of the bar, to his gorgeous Anabelle, and left me with a drink full of rapidly melting ice.
“Here.”
I blinked, tearing my gaze away from the sunset in my glass and allowing it to rise, to meet Archer’s.
“Here,” he said again, sliding a basket across the bar in front of me.
It wasn’t fancy or anything particularly special, a sampler of fried bar foods—chicken strips, mozzarella sticks, wings, a bit of celery and carrots to pretend to be healthy, and a trifecta of dipping sauces.
“No,” I said, shoving it away, even as my stomach rumbled.
He steadied it, his slow grin burning through me. “Sounds like your stomach thinks differently.”
He tapped the wood, straightened, and moved a few feet away, pulling glasses out of a dishwasher and stacking the blue plastic racks behind him.
It was his biceps.
Later, I’d blame his biceps.
They strained against the cotton of his shirt, veins crossing the bulging muscles, making my mouth water. I’d tasted his skin, could remember the notes of spice, how it had become tinged with salt when he’d thrust with the drive of a man who wasn’t going to stop until he’d brought me over the edge.
Until I’d been . . . satisfied.
I shivered . . . and caught his eyes in the mirror.
Fire and need and the temptation to break all my rules just so I could have this man be mine. For only a few minutes. For more. For—
Fucking hell, I picked up one of the mozzarella sticks and bit into it.
Salt and goo—
Which was really not helping me with the whole not fucking Archer thing. Barf. Especially when I was trying to avoid looking at him. Failing avoiding looking at him. Because the man had . . . paint . . . on the back of his arm. A smear of bright blue along his triceps.
He turned, caught me looking, and though I dropped the fried bit of mozzarella like it was a stick of dynamite, the fucker saw it anyway.
His eyes sparkled with humor, his mouth turning up.
I wanted to punch him. I wanted to kiss him.
So, back to the whole fucking hell thing.
But also, fuck the fucking hell, fuck me worrying about that man and his gorgeous body, his wonderful cock. I had a basket of fried deliciousness in front of me, and I was going to clog my arteries.
A.K.A. I was going to eat it.
Without regret and without paying the least bit of attention to the person my body was paying the most attention to.
See? That made total sense.
Also, this just in, it made absolutely no sense.
I picked up another mozzarella stick anyway.
Chapter Nine
Archer
I felt the moment that Dominque left.
As though all the nerves in my body had been singularly attuned to her, and now that she was gone, they were signaling to me, telling me to go after her.
But I had work to do.
I began racking glasses. Next, I’d need to check for what alcohol was low, and I was pretty sure there was a keg that was about to run out, and—
A hand on my arm.
“Go after her.”
I glanced down, saw that Anabelle had come up next to me.
“What’s up?” I asked.
She nudged me back. “Don’t play stupid. Go after her.”
“Go after who?”
A sigh. “Archer, so help me God, I will squirt lime juice in your eye. That woman wants you.”
“She’s given me firm Do Not Proceed signs.”
“So, she’s going to make you work for it,” Anabelle said. “The best things in life are worth working for. Plus, she’s spent the majority of the evening eye-fucking you, so it’s not like she’s immune.”
“Still, that doesn’t mean I should—”
“It’s dark out. She’s walking to her car in the dark.”
My hands convulsed on the rack of glasses, remembering the last time she’d gone off, how that little fuck boy had cornered her. What if someone else did the same? What if—
“Go,” Anabelle said. “You’re off anyway.”
I’d been late after my painting
