Chapter 1

ONE

These days, I’m a keeper. I keep to myself, keep busy, and keep my head down. It’s why I could never live in a small town or any type of close-knit community. People all up in your business, lives linked, doing things together, taking interest in each other? Bleurgh. Shoot me now.

Big cities, though? Overpopulated, loud, crowded, grimy, dirty? Here I’m as close to invisible as I can get.

Here, I fit.

Of course, there are a few downsides. Mainly the part where you achieve such a high level of invisibility that you blend in so well you almost get run over by a food truck on your way to work. Once that happens, it’s safe to say you’ve gone a step too far and should probably reassess. My invisibility doesn’t come with invincibility included.

My bike’s fucked. It rattles and the bell gives a dull clunking sound as I tug the bike roughly over the pavement, the front tire broken and the fork bent. My palms and parts of my arms are covered in road rash, blood, and dirt. The pinky finger is swelling up rapidly and has turned a nice, unnatural shade of purple. The throbbing that accompanies it is pretty fucking annoying.

I put the bike away and sourly study my hands for another second before I unlock the front door and go inside, careful not to get blood anywhere. The building is empty and dark, the lessons done for the day.

Five nights a week, from eight p.m. to eleven p.m., I sweep, mop, scrub, wipe, disinfect, pressure clean, and dry the changing rooms and the pool area at a swim school in Brooklyn Heights.

It’s a good job, pays decently well for a janitorial position, and leaves my days free for school.

The guy who owns the place is nice. He has a calm air about him that, as a result, settles all over the place. Not that I see him much. Usually, by the time I get here everybody else is long gone, which suits me just fine.

I grab the first aid kit from the cupboard on the wall and go to the bathroom, where I rinse my hands with tepid water before I examine the damage.

It could be worse.

I put bandages on the heels of my palms and then stare sourly at the pinky finger. Still throbbing. Now with extra swelling.

That’s just going to slow me down.

I get out of the bathroom and rummage around in the front desk for a little while until I find a roll of painter’s tape. I use that to tape the pinky to the finger next to it and call it good.

Once that’s done, I put my earbuds in and get to work. I’ve had this job for a year and a half already, so I’ve settled into a routine. Changing rooms get cleaned first, and then I head to the pool area.

The broken finger does slow me down, which is not ideal, but there’s not much I can do about it other than suck it up. It’s already well past midnight when I finally make my way to the pool with the pressure washer in tow. Usually, I’m at home by now, heading to bed, so every now and then a yawn escapes.

I tighten my hold on the handle of the pressure washer and pull it after me. I’ve barely rounded the corner when I freeze in place.

There’s somebody here.

My heart picks up speed courtesy of a combination of adrenaline and my overactive imagination, which immediately jumps to picturing an outcome that sees me getting violently murdered. Only, if somebody is here with the intent of murder, they’re not doing a very good job since they’re currently in the pool, doing laps, instead of trying to find the best way to stab me.

I blink and stare. Option number two, the more logical one, says it’s Quinn—the man who owns the place. Sometimes he’s still around when I start working, jokingly complaining about paperwork. Offering me bottles of water from the fridge. Rolling his eyes when I forget and call him Mr. Henris.

The longer I look at the man in the pool, the clearer it becomes that this isn’t Quinn. I’ve seen Quinn swim. He treats every lap like he’s trying to break a record. Every stroke is disciplined, determined, and executed with precision.

This guy? He’s clearly in it for the fun of it. There’s an almost lazy quality to the way he moves. Like he’s not really even bothered and is just doing this to pass the time until something more interesting comes along.

Clearly that’s not me, seeing as he’s unaware anybody else is here.

I consider my options for a moment before I come to a decision: I’ll provide him with some excitement because whoever it is, he’s not supposed to be here.

I put the pressure washer down and walk to the corner of the room, where there’s a shelf with the equipment. Kick boards, diving toys, and pool noodles are neatly organized, not only by size but also by color and weight.

I pick out a weighted rubber ball that’s used for diving practice and toss it up and down a few times. Heavy, but not so heavy you could knock somebody unconscious with it.

He still hasn’t noticed me, because by now he’s just floating on his back in the middle of the pool.

I almost feel bad. He looks strangely peaceful like this, floating on his back in the middle of the night. Then again, if he wanted to be peaceful, he shouldn’t have started that mission by breaking in here.

As much as I usually appreciate my invisibility, I’ll make an exception for tonight. I aim and send the ball flying.

It hits the dude straight on the forehead. He draws in a satisfying mouthful of water, splutters and flails, and goes under for a few seconds before his head pops out of the water again. He wipes his hand over his face as he looks around.

It takes him a second to find me. I expect him to be pissed, but instead his gaze fixes on me.

Holds.

And then his lips tilt up in a slow grin. For a few moments, our eyes stay locked, and the room feels very still and silent.

Then…

“I surrender,” he says and lifts his palms up.

I eye him for another second. Now that I have his attention, I’m honestly not sure what to do with it. He’s supposed to try and run away or make excuses or something normal like that. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he simply looks at me while he’s still treading water.

“Good for you.” I nod toward the bottom of the pool. “Get the ball back.”

He studies me for another second before he salutes me and goes under again. He emerges a few seconds later, the ball clutched between his fingers, wades to the edge of the pool, and holds the ball out for me, a challenge on his face, and a playful smirk in his eyes.

I quirk my brow at him. “Do you need help getting out of the water?”

He aims another cocky grin my way. “Just making sure I have your full attention.”

I look him up and down, what little I see of him. The water distorts the image, but what I can see is pretty damn impressive. I can see his six-pack through the water, so that kind of tells you where we’re at in the physical shape department. I start to tug the sleeves of my shirt lower before I catch myself and stuff my hands into my pockets.

And it doesn’t stop there, by the way. That six-pack also comes with a side of wide chest, defined forearms, deep brown eyes, a mess of dirty blond hair, dark eyebrows, and equally dark, long lashes.

Fuck’s sake, Wren, are you actually checking out a burglar? They’re called standards. You should go and get some.

Based on the smug smile, there’s about zero percent chance he’s not aware about the way he looks and the impact those looks most likely have on people. I’m not really helping curb that arrogance by staring, am I? And I am staring, even if the arrogance is a bit of a turn-off, to be honest.

He leans his very nice forearms on the edge of the pool and settles in, eyes lazily swiping up and down me. There’s not much to see here. I’m in a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It’s my usual uniform. I’m also tired from a day of school and most definitely covered in blood and bandages. That doesn’t stop him from taking his time, and it doesn’t stop the cocky grin on his lips widening.

“And you are?” he asks.

I stare back.

“Does it usually work?” I blurt out. I don’t mean to say that, but I’m feeling genuinely curious right now.

The smile doesn’t falter one bit.

“Does what usually work?”

I cross my arms over my chest for a moment before I wave one hand in his general direction. “You’re not supposed to be here. I know it. You obviously know it. And yet, you don’t seem that worried about what is essentially you breaking into this place. Which makes me think it’s a regular thing for you. So just out of curiosity, does that aw-shucks grin usually help?”

Where I assume other people possibly might feel contrite after what I just said, this dude is very much unapologetic.

“Ninety-nine percent of the time,” he says. “There was this older woman once who seemed immune, but it later turned out she just had terrible eyesight. The moment she put her glasses on she got with the program, and I was off the hook.”

I can feel my eyebrows climbing higher. He’s breaking in. He got caught. For the life of me, I don’t understand how he seems so at ease right now. And who even breaks into a fucking pool anyway? Just to take a midnight dip? Why? Fucking mental.

I drag my hand through my hair and watch him climb out of the water, droplets showering down all around him.

It’s like a scene out of a movie. The only thing that’s missing is slow motion.

Also, six-pack was clearly an understatement.

He holds the ball out without a word, and I reach out my hand to take it. His eyes zero in on my fingers, and then his fingers wrap around my hand, and he lifts it up, examining the bright blue tape I used for damage control earlier.

“What happened here?” he asks once he looks up.

I clear my throat and pull my hand out of his grasp.

“It’s just a sprain.”

“ Just a sprain?” he repeats. “Is that painter’s tape?”

“It’s a splint. I had to improvise a bit.”

“Saying this is a splint is being very generous.”

I frown at my fingers and then at him. “Everybody’s a critic.”

He lets out a startled laugh, and I take a step back. I still have no idea what to make of him.

“So what am I dealing with here?” I ask. “Did you get locked in when they were closing the place and figured you’d get your money’s worth while you’re here? Are you a burglar who didn’t get the job description?”

He sends me a sly smile. “What would I steal? Water?”

I shrug. “You tell me.” I throw him and his sculpted abs another look and feel my whole face heat. “Would you just put some clothes on already?”

He hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think anybody’s ever asked me to put more clothes on.”

“What do you know, there’s a first time for everything.”

He snorts out a laugh, salutes me, goes and grabs his clothes from where he’s stowed them on one of the benches by the wall, and saunters away, leaving me staring after him.

“What the hell is happening?” I mutter to myself under my breath.

I get no answer.

He comes back.

He gets dressed, but he comes back.

I take my sweet-ass time with the pressure cleaner.

He’s still here when I finish.

Eventually, I pack the cleaning supplies away and go to where he’s now lounging against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other.

I sigh. I was really hoping he’d take off, so I wouldn’t have to deal with him. No such luck.

“You’re still here,” I say, stating the obvious.

He hums in reply, eyes still on me. He doesn’t say anything, just looks, his gaze sweeping up and down, the same cocky smile on his lips.

I suppose normal people would be happy to have his attention.

The best I can do is apprehension.

He’s apparently done looking for now, because he lifts his chin toward me.

“You never did tell me your name.”

“No.”

The short answer doesn’t deter him at all.

“In a relationship?” he asks instead, seemingly out of the blue.

I blink before I shake my head.

“Recently dumped?”

Another shake of my head.

“Unrequited love?”

I narrow my eyes at him. What kinds of questions are those?

“What?” I eventually ask.

“Are you pining away for the unattainable? Waiting for somebody to see the error of their ways and realize you’re the only one for them?”

“No?” I say slowly.

“Excellent news.”

“Is it?”

“Makes hitting on you that much easier.”

I eye him some more. Let the words settle in my mind and their meaning become clear. He’s hitting on me. This dude who looks like he should have people writing sonnets about him is lounging against a wall opposite me in the middle of the night at the pool where I work, hitting on me, and all the while looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And that is all happening despite the fact that—and I cannot stress this enough—he’s breaking into this place.

“Is that what you’re doing?” I ask once I’ve collected myself a bit.

The amused smile stays firmly in place. Not mocking. Interested. “Was that not clear?”

“Just checking,” I say.

“In that case, yes. I’m definitely hitting on you. Unless you have objections to that?”

His easy grin takes on a new dimension. A devilish edge. It looks suspiciously natural on him. Here’s somebody who’s used to getting what he wants. I’ve met these kinds of people before. It never ends well.

“Not sure yet,” I say belatedly. “But go ahead. Show me your moves.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He waggles his brows.

“That’s it?” I say. “That’s your move? Somebody’s confident.”

“The first of many. It’s a whole production once I get going, so I need to gauge interest before I start to see if it’s worth the time commitment.”

“That’s a hell of a way to create expectations. I can’t wait to see all those moves you’ve got now.”

The devilish edge gets sharper. “What’s your name?”

I quirk my brow at him. “Is that one of your moves? It’s kind of unimpressive.”

“I suppose I can keep calling you the hot, broody guy, but it’s a mouthful, and I’d really prefer to find a better use for my mouth tonight.”

I nod. Well, it’s something, I guess. “Marginally better.”

He laughs. “Tough crowd.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too much. You’re doing about as well as can be expected considering all the things working heavily against you.”

His lips twitch. “What might those be?”

“For one thing, your obvious penchant for breaking into buildings is a bit of a turn-off.”

“Or is it hot?”

“I think the word you’re looking for is crime. Is it a crime? Yes.”

He starts to laugh and shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything, just looks again.

“What?” I eventually ask.

He shrugs. “Nothing. I just enjoy looking at you.”

I cross my arms over my chest and then unwrap them because I don’t want to come off as self-conscious and unsure, even though that’s exactly how I feel. But I don’t want to look it.

“You know, now it’s actually starting to feel like you are hitting on me,” I say.

His expression changes into something infinitely more intense than the easygoing flirtation from a moment before.

“Quite blatantly, I might add,” he says.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Thank you? I’m just going to speed this thing along so we can both go on with our night. You’ll ask me out. I’ll say no. We’ll exchange awkward pleasantries. I’ll call the cops.”

I mean… That’s the right answer, isn’t it? That’s what normal people do when somebody breaks in. They call the cops. It’s a testament to what an idiot I am that I haven’t yet.

“Sound about right?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.

He tilts his head to the side slightly. “No? No offense. I’m sure you’d be a perfectly nice person to date, but that’s not what I want. At all. In fact, I cannot stress enough how much I don’t want a date.”

I see we’re ignoring the police part of this conversation.

“What do you want then?” I ask.

He straightens himself up, all fluid and graceful.

He moves like water .

And then he’s right in front of me. He’s about the same height as me, maybe an inch or so taller, and he’s standing so close that I can feel the heat of him. A tingle at the back of my neck travels down my spine, scorching hot and decidedly unwelcome.

“I want to fuck you,” he says. No hesitation. No real lead-up to that statement either, unless the break-in is some new form of foreplay, and I’m just unaware that this is now a thing. It’s entirely possible. Trends tend to reach me later than other people.

“Huh,” I say after a second when it’s clear he’s not joking. “Basically, you’re an example of what-if-Grindr-was-a-real-boy.”

His lips twitch.

“Basically,” he agrees.

There’s something calming about his straightforwardness. Like a negotiation where all the cards are already on the table. It’s my favorite kind.

Then again, saying that, I’m still not sure how we got here.

He starts to laugh again at whatever it is he sees on my face. “You’re hot. I don’t think this is the first offer you’ve ever received. Although, if it is, I’m willing to show you the ropes.”

I ignore the… compliment? “Nice of you. You’re a bit shallow.”

Instead of looking affronted like I imagine most people would, he starts nodding eagerly.

“Oh, more than a bit. I have the depth of a puddle in a heat wave. There are no hidden oceans here. I do not contain multitudes. I’m glad we’re on the same page. Wouldn’t want to give a false impression of myself.”

“Shallow but honest.”

He shrugs easily. “It’s not as if one cancels out the other. And in the interest of said honesty, I’m also not a good person. I’d go so far as to say that I’m a complete asshole. I really only care about what I can get from you. I don’t give a shit about your job, hobbies, or interests. You have friends? Good for you. Family? Hard pass. I don’t want to meet them. Daddy issues? I don’t—on second thought, scratch that, I can work with those, provided I can deal with the aftereffects and not learn about the specifics of what caused them. The bottom line is, I want to fuck you. Interested?”

I stare at him for the longest time. I’m really not sure what to make of him. Is he even real? I mean, yeah, that was refreshingly honest, but people don’t usually say something like that about themselves. People also don’t say they want to fuck complete strangers while they’re busy committing a crime.

“People aren’t usually so blunt,” I say slowly.

“I know. It’s extremely disappointing. Just think how much easier everything would be if we all just spoke our minds.”

“I assume it would also involve things like hurt feelings, and that’s why most of us don’t,” I say drily.

He makes a face. “The f-word. And not the good kind.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. On paper, this dude is off-putting. In real life… he’s sort of entertaining.

“Wow. You’re a real catch.”

“Not trying to be that even a little bit, so if you’re one of those romantics who’s saving themselves for their prince on a white horse, could you please let me know now? I’m not interested in any of that, so we’d just be wasting each other’s time.”

“I don’t?—”

“I can give you my therapist’s number if you want to talk through the pain past lovers have caused you. He charges an arm and a leg, but he’s a great listener.”

I should find him obnoxious. The Wren I know normally would. The Wren I know would hate this kind of arrogance and cockiness. The Wren I know wouldn’t trust any of it.

But that Wren doesn’t seem to be here right now. Instead, there’s this other Wren, who’s starting to find this situation both absurd and a bit exciting.

“You have a very mysterious smile,” the guy says.

“Do I?”

“Like the Mona Lisa.”

“Fingers crossed somebody will get a hankering to paint me, so people can wonder about me for centuries to come,” I say.

“I’d offer my services if you’re willing to make it a nude.”

My cheeks get a degree warmer, but it’s an illusion of desire. Nobody wants to see me naked. I have plenty of evidence of that. It’s nice to pretend, though. It’s nice to impersonate normalcy for a change.

“Are you any good at painting?”

He shrugs. “Some body parts more than others.”

A snort of laughter escapes. This is probably not real. I’m starting to consider the possibility that I slipped and fell and hit my head, so in reality, I’m probably lying by the side of the pool, unconscious, possibly in a coma, and am now hallucinating this whole encounter. Hell, maybe I’m dead.

“So in essence, what you’re offering is to paint me a fancy dick pic,” I say.

“It’s nice your mind went straight to the gutter.” He grins. “I personally very much approve of that.”

“Somehow I figured you would.”

His smile widens, like he’s happy I’m getting it. “Told you. Depth of a puddle.”

“At least you’re honest about it.”

“I’m also excellent in bed,” he says. “That, too, is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, your honor.”

“I’m gonna have to take your word for it.”

He waggles his brows. “Or fuck and find out.”

I snort and shake my head, half-amused, half-confused. “Who even says things like this?”

“People who are aiming to get in your pants?”

“No?” They don’t. At least, nobody ever has before. Nobody’s ever been so blatantly forward. Not that I have much experience to back up that claim. I spend most of my time in school or at work, doing my best to fly under the radar.

“Yes?” he says, mimicking my earlier skeptical tone almost perfectly. “I would know. I’m trying to do just that right now.”

I open and close my mouth, not even sure what to say to that anymore. It seems I’ve reached my limit of being hit on. If that really is what’s happening here.

“Okay,” I say. “A for effort, I guess. This has been… interesting. Yeah. This has been interesting. But I’m done with work now, so…”

“Time for the fun part? Just say the word, and I’ll gladly be your reward for a job well done.” He waggles his brows.

“I was thinking more along the lines of it being time for those cops I mentioned earlier.”

His shoulders slump, and he lets out a disappointed sigh. “You have a very pretty mouth,” he says. “But I’m not a fan of that last sentence at all.”

Yet another startled laugh escapes me while I try my best not to be flattered. “ You’re the one who broke in here.”

“Oh, I know. I’m taking full responsibility, no problem with that.” He sends me a thoughtful look. “If I solve this ethical conundrum for you, will you be grateful and find yourself facing an overpowering need to come home with me? We’ll fuck and forget the rest of the world for the night.”

My stomach jolts.

I ignore it as best I can.

“Ethical conundrum?” I echo.

He waves his hand in the air dismissively. “The one where you want to do the right thing and be an upstanding citizen but also desperately want to take me up on my offer.”

I can’t help but laugh at the unprecedented level of sheer audacity and arrogance.

“Sure. Go ahead. Call the cops for me and confess.”

He grins and pulls his phone out. After sliding his thumb over the screen a few times he holds it out in front of himself and puts it on speaker. We listen to it ring for a little while.

“ H’llo? ” a very sleepy, definitely not 911 voice says.

“I want to confess my sins,” my late night guest announces.

There’s a long, long pause before the same sleepy voice on the other end of the phone says, “ Sutton? ”

“The one and only. I’m at the pool,” the guy—Sutton, apparently—says.

Another beat of silence follows.

“ My pool? ”

Yeah… That’s my boss. And based on this phone call, this dude is Quinn’s friend. Or at least somebody who knows him well enough to call in the middle of the night.

And I just hit him straight in the face with a rubber ball and accused him of breaking in. I’m sure there were a few other insults I threw in there.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit!

Now my stomach jolts for a whole other reason as a faint hum of panic sets in.

“Uh-huh,” Sutton says cheerfully. “I broke in.”

Quinn lets out a deep sigh. “ You know, my grandfather once told me having friends was overrated. I didn’t believe him at the time because frankly he was more than a bit eccentric. I now see the error of my ways. He’d be so happy that I’ve converted to his philosophy. ” Somebody mutters something in the background. “ It’s Sutton. ” Quinn’s voice is muffled now. “ He broke into the pool. ” Sleepy laughter rings out through the speaker, then Quinn’s voice comes through clearer again. “ Well, at least my boyfriend seems to think it’s funny. ”

There’s some rustling and then a door closes with a click on the other end of the line.

“ What do you want, Sutton? ”

“Okay, so I broke into the pool. Took a little dip.”

“ As one does at… one fifteen in the morning?! Oh, fuck you, ” Quinn says in an exasperated voice. “ You realize there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll be up in less than four hours, following Steph around the neighborhood for God knows how many miles while he tries to run his thoughts away? ”

“Have fun. Do you want to hear this or not?” Sutton asks.

“ No. I really, really don’t. I would’ve happily gone on in blissful ignorance. ”

“Yeah, well, I got caught, so I’m your problem now.”

Quinn mutters something unintelligible.

“ By the police? ” he finally asks. “ Am I your one phone call? ” He raises his voice a bit. “ Yes, officer, I do want to press charges. ”

Sutton’s eyes find mine, and we’re back to that looking he claims he enjoys so much.

“There’s this guy here,” he says.

“ Please tell me you didn’t drag somebody in there with you. Goddamnit, Sutton! You’re going to pay my water bill and for the cleaning job if you had sex with somebody in my pool. I teach swimming there. To kids! ”

“Yes, yes, you’re very noble. And, no, I didn’t bring anybody with me. It’s your employee.”

Quinn is silent for a moment before he says, “ Wren? ”

“We didn’t get to introductions yet. Let’s see… Brown hair, insanely blue eyes, slightly shorter than me, so I’d guess a bit under six feet or so?”

“ Sounds like Wren. ”

Sutton sends me one of those smug, arrogant smiles he seems to have in ample supply.

“Wren,” he repeats. “A pleasure.”

“ Jesus Christ. Give him the phone. ”

“Uh… hi,” I say. “You’re on speaker.”

“ Of course I am. ” Quinn sighs. “ Okay, Wren, I’m gonna need you to listen very carefully. ”

I brace myself. I mean, I don’t think he’s going to fire me. I don’t think I did anything wrong. At least, not too wrong. Minus the insults and accusations. And hitting this Sutton-person in the face.

On second thought, things aren’t actually looking too good for me.

“ You know that pathetic excuse of a tree behind the building? ” Quinn asks.

“Sure?” I say hesitantly.

“ There’s a shovel in the maintenance closet. Bury him underneath the tree. ”

“Uh…” I throw a quick glance at Sutton. He still has the same arrogant smile on his face. “How about I just kick him out?”

“ It’s an option, sure, but that’s called treating the symptom and not the cause. ”

I snort and look down at my feet. Relief at not being fired drives the anxiety onto the backburner. “I’ll take care of this.”

“ I’ll give you a raise. And a bonus for having to deal with him. ”

“Sorry for the middle of the night call,” I say.

“ Not your fault. Get rid of him and go home. ”

I nod even though he can’t see me.

“Good night.”

“ Night, ” he says through a yawn, already sounding half asleep again.

I reach out and end the call, then Sutton puts the phone away.

We both look at each other in silence for a bit.

He quirks his brow.

“Out,” I say.

I expect him to argue.

Instead, he grabs his jacket and walks to the front door.

“I’ll see you around, Wren,” he says over his shoulder.

“I doubt it,” I call after him.

He turns around in the doorway and smiles enigmatically.

And then he’s gone.