3. Dark

THREE

DARK

I put my spent bowl of apple crumble and ice cream on the coffee table just as the credits rolled on Planes, Trains and Automobiles .

Eric, who was indisputably all man, had done what any man would do when we sat down to watch the movie. He’d seized the remote, and as such, right then, he hit pause on the credits.

I tipped my head so I could look at him where his long body was lounged down the longer end of my couch. I was on the shorter end, propped up in the corner, his stocking feet mere inches from me being able to give him a foot massage (which I was not doing, but the urge was there).

I’d always loved my couch.

Seeing Eric stretched out on it, I adored it.

“How far will I fall in your estimation if I unbutton my jeans?” I asked.

His lips were curved up. “Not at all. That’s the best compliment to the chef you can get.”

I snaked a hand under my tee and unbuttoned. I also needed to unzip, or better, go and put on some lounge pants, but the button would have to suffice for now.

“Better,” I mumbled.

Eric chuckled before he asked, “I picked the first movie, you get the next.”

The next.

I really didn’t want to be so happy he wasn’t leaving now that dinner, dessert and movie were done, the sun had set, and the day was winding down.

But I was happy.

“I feel like watching Jack sink to the bottom of the Atlantic,” I stated.

His lip curve stayed in place, but the feel of him shifted to that strange sensation I sensed last night when he murmured, “Dark.”

I shrugged. “That’s me.”

He said nothing, but I felt approval emanating from him.

Awesome.

And strange.

Not many guys got into my darkness.

Not many chicks did either.

But it seemed Eric did.

“So, what are your thoughts about the door?” I asked.

“The door?” he asked back.

“The door,” I repeated. “Do you think Jack could fit on it with Rose?”

His brow furrowed. “Is that a thing?”

“Hotly debated,” I verified.

“Why?”

This was a good question.

“I take it from your question, in the spirit of the day, you have no fucks to give about whether Jack could have fit on the door with Rose,” I noted.

“I can confirm I have no fucks to give about whether a fictional character could fit on a fictional door in a movie about a fictional story even if it’s based on a nonfictional event.”

I started laughing.

“Do you care?” he asked.

“Well, perhaps the production team should have made a smaller door so people wouldn’t obsess about it for decades after the movie was released. But for the most part, I think there are much larger things in this world to give a shit about. So…no.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, and I felt that word, and the softness he used, flit over my skin.

To combat the feeling, I remarked, “That said, Jack did try to get on the door. I suppose they could have kept trying, but then Rose might’ve fallen off. And the impending hypothermia could have taken them both. So, if forced to have an opinion, I think people should just get over it.”

“Yeah,” he repeated.

“So… Titanic ?” I prompted.

“Works for me.” He tossed the remote my way. “Queue it up. I’m getting more crumble.”

He was doing what?

“Are you serious?”

He’d put his feet to the ground in order to get up, but my question stopped him, and his head turned my way. “Yeah, why?”

“How do you maintain that body with extra portions of stuffing and crumble?”

“How do you maintain your body while obviously eating out all the time?”

Did this mean he liked my body?

I didn’t ask.

I answered, “I have a job where I’m on my feet nine hours of the day.”

“And I have a job where, if I don’t keep fit, my ass could be in a sling.”

“Are you saying your job is dangerous?”

“I’m saying, if it turned that way and I was out of shape, I’d be shit out of luck. So I prefer to take luck out of the equation.”

“So you’re saying you don’t feel the need to unbutton your pants.”

His expression changed, I felt it in my nipples, and his voice flowed over me like velvet when he replied, “Not yet.”

Wait.

Was he…

Flirting?

“I take it this discussion means you’re a no for more crumble,” he noted.

Okay.

Freakout averted.

He wasn’t flirting.

Just hopeful thinking.

“Is me switching into lounge pants also a compliment to the chef?”

His black eyes twinkled. “Yeah.”

“Spoon it up, big man. I’m gonna go change.”

I went to my bedroom and switched out my black jeans for black joggers that had a satiny grosgrain ribbon pinstripe down the side. They were perfect. Warm. Comfy. Cute. And expandable.

I hit the kitchen when Eric was scooping out ice cream.

“Want another cocktail? Or I can make coffee or chai,” I offered.

“Coffee,” he picked.

I went to my big bowl of Nespresso pods. “Intenso, odacio or stormio? Or are you feeling festive and want pumpkin spice or rich chocolate?”

“Intenso,” he ordered.

Seriously, this dude was the man of my dreams.

I started the machine warming and reached for mugs.

This was part of what I did for a living, so when Eric came to the sink in order to lean his hips against it and watch me, I wasn’t a huge fan of how unnerved he made me.

I should note, I wasn’t surprised.

But I wasn’t a fan.

He was offering friendship.

I had good friends. However, I curated them carefully, so they were few.

That said, anyone could use a new friend.

“I got two questions, but you didn’t ask any,” he said.

I looked to him. “Sorry?”

“At dinner. I asked two personal questions. You didn’t ask any.”

“Just now I asked about Rose and Jack and the door.”

“Does that give you insight into the man I am?”

“Yes.”

And it wasn’t a lie.

His lips tipped up before he said, “So you get one more.”

I felt my brows dip down. “This feels like a test.”

“It isn’t. We’re getting to know each other.”

We sure were.

And for the first time since he showed, I wondered why.

“You didn’t answer me fully,” he pointed out he saw right through my earlier answers. “If I’m not down with what you ask, I’ll return the favor.”

This was starting to feel like a game.

He wanted to play?

I wanted to know more about him.

So I was in.

The light turned green on the Nespresso machine, so I hit go, turned back to him and asked, “Why’d you leave the FBI?”

“Because we had a mole. Someone who thought money was more important than fighting crime, and worse, keeping his fellow agents alive. I know this, since, due to his shit, one of them died. I made it my mission to ferret out who that fucker was, and I found out it was my partner. My partner, who was also my closest friend. I nailed his ass. He went to prison. He’s still in prison. And I got out of the Bureau.”

Holy fuck.

This was a lot .

“Turner,” I whispered.

“It was a while ago.”

“That…” I shook my head. “I don’t know what to say. That had to be the worst. I’m so fucking sorry that happened. So, so sorry you had to do that.”

His words were an audible shrug. “It’s over.”

Those words were also bullshit.

“True, but it’s still fucked up.”

“It’s still fucked up,” he agreed.

I was at a loss.

So much, my mouth ran away from me.

“I don’t know what to do.” I lifted my hands at my sides. “I feel like I should give you a hug or something.”

“I’d take a hug,” he said quietly, watching me closely.

It was then it hit me.

Not tight with his dad or his brother.

His closest friend, a traitor.

Someone died along the way.

No, a colleague did, and that band of brothers had to be as tight as others like them.

This hit him so hard, he left his career at the FBI, which wasn’t like scoring a job at the fryer at McDonald’s.

No shade on the fry guys, but it just wasn’t.

Had he ever been hugged after he endured this?

Like my mouth, my feet had a mind of their own.

They took the two steps to him, and when I arrived, I fit my body to his, wrapped my arms around him, and rested my cheek on his chest.

His arms curved around me.

Oh yeah.

That felt exactly as good as I thought it would feel.

Exactly .

“Have you talked to anyone about this?” I whispered to his shoulder.

“I just talked to you,” he whispered into the top of my hair.

I closed my eyes.

Because he and I were surrounded by good, kind people.

And we were still alone.

I tipped my head back.

He lifted his when I did and looked deep in my eyes.

I was still whispering when I said, “Thanks for saving my No-Fucks-to-Giving.”

His eyes got lazy. I felt that lazy in my belly and regions south, and he replied, “Thanks for sharing your No-Fucks-to-Giving with me.”

I stood there, holding him, gazing into his eyes.

He stood there, holding me, gazing into mine.

Without warning, it seemed his body relaxed, or mine just melted into it. One of his hands glided up my spine, and it felt so nice, I started rolling up on my toes just as his head started to descend.

And we both jolted when my door crashed open.

For a split second, his arms tightened around me.

And then I was shoved behind his back.

“What the…?”

Hearing Harlow’s voice, I peered around Eric’s body and saw Harlow, Luna and Raye all standing in my living room, gawping at us.

I might have been wrong, but it seemed like Eric was just about to kiss me.

Therefore, my “Knock much?” was pure acid.

“I…you…uh…we…you see…” Harlow stammered, blinking rapidly, but that was it. She didn’t finish a thought.

Luna, as ever, was less unsure of herself.

She planted her hands on her hips and demanded, “What’s going on here?”

Raye stepped between them and Eric and me, held a hand up to Luna and said, “No.” She turned to me. “Priorities. Excuse me, Jessica Wylde, but your brother is missing ?”

Well, shit.

Damn you, Clarice.

She didn’t even give me a day.

Even a holiday!

“I—” I didn’t quite begin.

Because Luna stepped up next to Raye and said, “Yeah. We know. And helllllooooo ? We found fourteen missing women just two months ago.”

Harlow stepped next to Luna. “Yeah,” she spat. “ Helllllloooo .”

Raye looked to Luna and Harlow in order to state, “I’m not sure she understood the shot of Fireball and pinkie promise.”

“Damn straight she didn’t,” Luna agreed, not taking her glare off me.

Of note at this juncture, when Harlow and I became official Avenging Angels, Raye and Luna made us take a Fireball shot and make a pinkie promise to the cause.

It was girlie-crap bonding, but I’d done it, mostly because Fireball was tasty.

And I dug my chicks.

Apparently, it meant something to them.

Who knew?

“Avenging Angels unite so we can find your brother,” Harlow decreed.

Oh shit.

“Word,” Raye agreed.

Luna just nodded. Once.

Crap!

“Listen, guys—” I tried.

Raye shook her head. “No. Unh-unh. No way, Jess. This is bullshit.”

“This is a family thing,” I returned.

Harlow’s brows hit her hairline and her voice could shatter glass when she asked, “And we’re not family?”

I felt Harlow’s offense, because they totally were. Especially Harlow (they were all my besties, but even with Harlow’s cheerleader-on-crack personality, which made us exact opposites, she was the bestest of my besties).

But even if they were, they also weren’t.

Fuck!

How to explain?

Eric’s hand settled warm and reassuringly on the small of my back at the same time I felt his tall frame take said back.

I very seldom felt warm, and never reassured, so it was highly distracting.

And getting distracted was a mistake.

Raye lifted a hand and pointed at me, then Luna, then Harlow, then herself, and back at me, while saying, “Confab. Tomorrow night. I’ll text the deets.”

Harlow did the hand lifting thing too and circled it in Eric and my direction, saying, “And during our confab, we’re going to be talking about whatever this is.”

“You bet your bippy we are,” Luna put in.

They gave me a collective glare, and as if they practiced it, they all turned in unison and stormed out.

Luna was the last one through the door, and she slammed it.

“We really need to lock that door,” Eric murmured.

I turned to him to find he was, indeed, right there.

I couldn’t deal with his proximity right then.

I also couldn’t deal with the subtle hints of rosemary and cedarwood wafting my way, a fragrance that had already become an aromatic touchstone to me.

I had other shit to deal with.

“First, they all have keys. Second, I can’t have them tramping around Phoenix trying to find Jeff and scaring him off or undoing the work I’ve been doing for the last six months to get people who might see him to trust me.”

“Talk to them. Tell them that.”

“Did you just experience what I experienced?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think they’re gonna listen?”

He bit his lip in thought.

I thought about how awesome it would be to bite his lip.

Then he answered, “No.”

Once again, my body moved without my mind’s permission, and this time it did it to plant my forehead on his chest.

He wrapped his hand around the back of my neck.

That was warm and reassuring too.

Gah!

“They did find fourteen women, Jessie,” he said gently. “If you’re not down with letting me and the men help, maybe they can.”

“It’s clean,” I said quietly.

“Pardon?”

I lifted my head to look at him, but he didn’t take his hand away.

“The black and white. It’s clean. It’s not like I don’t like color. I do. But I need clean around me. Uncluttered. Uncomplicated.”

“Controlled,” he murmured.

I nodded.

He got it.

“Wild stab,” he began. “They don’t know about your family situation.”

I shook my head.

“Do you wanna tell me why?”

“You’ve laid it all out for me today, and I don’t want to be a bitch and not reciprocate that, but honestly, I’m not really sure why.”

“Could it be that you seem totally with it, and you actually are, but if you let it out how fucked up growing up was for you, it might be a hit to your cred as a together woman who has it going on?”

He thought I was a together woman who had it going on?

Shit, I was feeling gooey again.

“Maybe,” I conceded.

“They’re your friends and they won’t think anything less of you knowing who you really are. And Jess, you keeping it from them is hiding who you are.”

One thing was clear about our most recent intrusion.

I was hiding.

“Our ice cream is melting,” I evaded.

“It is,” he said.

But he didn’t shift away so I could finish the coffees. He wrapped both his big hands around the sides of my neck and dipped his face to mine.

And he kept going.

“Even as shit as it was, your family helped make you. You didn’t bow. You certainly didn’t break. You became this hip woman with a great apartment, friends who’d go to the mat for her, and neighbors who turn to her in need because you don’t hesitate a second to give them what they need. They show because they know that’s what you’ll do. I don’t know it all. I know your brother is missing. I know you reported it to the police. I’ve read the reports of the cops’ visits with your mom and dad about that situation, and I read between the lines at the responses they gave to law enforcement. And I know a lot of people who have two parents who’d give zero shits their schizophrenic son is off his meds and on the streets of Phoenix who would not become the woman you are.”

I ignored the glow he created inside me with some (okay, most) of his words and focused on others.

“It was you who gave the flour to Alexis.”

“It was you who listened to her when she needed to unload, and encouraged her when she needed someone to remind her to keep her chin up. The flour was incidental. She needed a friend, and that was what you gave her.”

He was being awesome.

Or, more awesome.

Therefore, I couldn’t handle this.

“Can we eat more crumble so I can alternately concentrate on not puking at the same time marvel at James Cameron’s moviemaking chops?” I requested. “Because I feel the need to remind you, it’s No-Fucks-to-Giving, and it seems to me you’re giving a few fucks.”

The pads of his fingers pressed into my skin a beat before he sighed and dropped his hands.

“Back to no fucks given,” he muttered mildly irritably.

“Thank you,” I pushed out, fighting sagging with relief.

“I take a splash of cream, no sugar,” he ordered.

“Gotcha.” I moved to the coffee.

“Jess?”

I turned to him, liking my name on his tongue.

Damn.

“Your family doesn’t reflect on you.”

I started to say something, perhaps tell him how wrong he was, but he held up a hand, so I stopped.

“All I’m gonna say.”

“Thank you,” I repeated.

“I got the crumble. You bring the coffee when it’s done.”

I nodded.

Eric grabbed the bowls.

I turned to the Nespresso and switched out mugs and pods.

I had no idea what was going on with this guy.

And I wasn’t going to think about it.

I wasn’t because I knew two things for certain in this world.

If you wanted something, you worked for it.

And…

No matter how hard you worked for it, what would be was going to be, and whatever that was, you had no choice but to deal.

What was going on with Eric was going on.

And whatever it was, I would deal.

* * *

Something lovely slid across my cheek.

I opened my eyes and Eric Turner’s beautiful face was close to mine.

“Hey,” his beautiful voice whispered. “Sorry to wake you, but I’m leaving.”

Oh shit.

It was the end of No-Fucks-to-Giving.

“You need to lock up after me,” he said.

He was right. I did.

I struggled with my lethargy and the blanket on top of me to get up.

I didn’t struggle long. He demonstrated his broad shoulders weren’t simply aesthetically pleasing, because he used them, and his arms, to scoop me off the couch and set me on my feet.

Like literally scoop me up and set me down.

Just like that.

He didn’t even grunt.

I started teetering, and it wasn’t because I’d just been awakened. Nor was it because I’d had an emotional juggernaut of a day: good, mixed with bad, mixed with great, mixed with uncertain, mixed with just plain weird.

Eric steadied me, then he took my hand and led me to the door.

He’d wisely locked it before Titanic .

I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of Snakes on a Plane (yep, Eric had exceptional taste in movies, along with everything else that was exceptional about Eric, the newly learned items on this list including his cooking, his listening abilities, his sharing abilities and the dual purpose of his shoulders).

He stood in my open door, holding my hand.

I stood in my open door, having my hand held, liking my hand held and staring up at him.

“I know I shouldn’t give a fuck, but it’s been a great day,” he stated.

I slipped out of my What Will Be, Will Be Mentality and wondered what in the fuck was going on here.

“It has,” I agreed.

He squeezed my hand. “Go to bed, Jess.”

“Text me when you get home.”

“Pardon?”

Shit!

I needed to learn to control my mouth around him.

That was something I’d say to Harlow, Luna, Raye (though the last two lived at the Oasis, and Harlow was moving in December first, still).

Also Jeff.

In other words, people I loved.

I shook my head, pulled my hand from his, and waved my other one between us.

“No. Sorry. You’re a big boy. You don’t have to do that. I’m sure you’ll get home just fine.”

“I don’t have your number.”

“Seriously, it’s okay if you?—”

“Jessica, give me your number.”

Gazing into his eyes, I rattled it off by rote.

So much for learning to control my mouth.

“Got it,” he replied.

“Just like that?”

“In my line of business, you make a point to remember important things.”

Totally out of my What Will Be, Will Be Mentality.

Because, what the fuck was that?

“Go to bed,” he ordered. “I’ll see you later.”

“Right,” I mumbled. “Later.”

He chucked me under the chin.

Chucked me under the chin .

Again…

The fuck?

Was this… something ?

Or was I like some little sister he was adopting because I was alone and fucked up?

“’Night,” he murmured.

Then he was gone.

I stared at the space he used to be in until I heard him call from down the walkway, “Close the door and lock it, Jessie.”

I closed the door and locked it.

I then woodenly turned to look at my apartment.

The TV was off.

The black-and-white-striped throw Eric had pulled over him was folded on the edge of the couch (the diagonal stripe one I was using was in a bunch on the floor).

There were no bowls or mugs lying around.

I wandered to my kitchen.

I heard the dishwasher whirring and saw that our crumble bowls and coffee mugs were nowhere to be seen.

“What’s happening?” I asked my sink.

The sink had no answers.

I needed a pet.

Pets had no answers either, but at least you didn’t feel like a moron when you talked to them.

I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my face, moisturized and pulled my dark hair up into a ponytail.

I then went to my bedroom, turned on a light beside my bed and donned my pajamas (yes, black leopards crawling over a white background, drawstring sleep shorts and a long-sleeved pajama top—when I sought control of my surroundings, I didn’t mess around).

I went back out and checked the lock on the door I’d locked maybe five minutes before, grabbed my phone, extinguished the lights and headed back to the bedroom.

I was sitting with my back to my headboard, zebra print comforter tucked to my lap, flicking through TikToks to kill time, when it came in.

Home .

The text from Eric.

I programmed him into my phone, then sent, Good. Thanks for starting the dishwasher .

No problem .

This did not say, “I don’t want the day to end either, keep me engaged.”

I nibbled the side of my thumb, trying to decide if I should text something else.

He didn’t send another text while I was deciding.

Which decided for me.

It also reminded me I wasn’t that girl. I didn’t wait up to get a text when I was sleepy, and I didn’t obsess about whether a guy was into me or not.

With that reminder of who I was, I put my phone down on the charge pad, turned out the light and settled in, ignoring the fact I felt empty and very alone in that bed. Both feelings I was used to, so for the most part ignored. Neither feeling boded well, making themselves known in a manner I couldn’t ignore after spending the day with Eric Turner.

I was pulling the covers up to my shoulder when a text coming in illuminated the area of my nightstand.

It would have been embarrassing if anyone saw how fast my hand moved to grab my phone.

Sleep well, Jess .

It was from Eric.

The empty feeling evened out, the alone feeling remained, but wasn’t as sharp, and I replied, You too, Turner .

He dropped a thumbs-up on my text.

I smiled, put the phone back on the charge pad.

And slipped right to sleep.