8. Grayson

Grayson

A s the door closes behind Maggie, a slow burn of anger builds in my chest. The soft click of the latch echoes in my ears, a reminder that she's gone. Tilly has obviously scared her off on purpose, and the thought makes my skin prickle with frustration.

"What was she doing here? You did your time," Tilly asks as soon as the door is closed. Her voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. Do I need to explain things to her? Who I date is none of her business, right? The dynamic is strange. The last people that signed my checks certainly thought it was their business. But Tilly promised things would be different. Now is the time to test that theory. Because if not, I will be moving and finding a new job. Like hell will I live under a microscope again.

Tommy chuckles from the couch, his feet propped up casually as if this is all a joke. "Believe me, he wants more than time with Detective Parker."

"Please. Falling for his arresting officer? We've already played that game with Sam, remember?" Tilly crosses her arms, leaning against the door frame with a skeptical look.

Tommy kicks his feet up, a curious expression on his face. "Woah. Isn't there, like, some disease where people fall in love with their kidnappers?"

"Yes, babe, but that's not this."

"Stockholm Syndrome," I say quietly, the words bitter on my tongue. Their conversation only manages to make me more upset. Technically, Detective Parker didn't arrest me; the federal government did, not the state of California. And I don't have some kidnapper kink.

I'm attracted to Maggie for a lot of good reasons. Funny, smart, sexy, and a little… dorky.

That's my favorite part. The way she was so interested in the LEGOs or how she made the giraffe talk. Don't even get started on the impromptu dance party she had with my son. People can't fake that.

I want more of it. A lot more. As a friend? Or maybe something more? I don't know right now. All I know is she walked out of here uncomfortable, and that's killing me right now.

The idea of her leaving with a bad taste in her mouth suddenly has me in a panic. "Keep an eye on George for a second," I say as I swing open the front door. Behind me, I hear Tommy laughing, but Tilly is cursing loudly. I'll have to admonish her for doing that in front of the kids later. George doesn't need to have his first year at school be packed with visits to the principal's office, and that time is coming quicker than I want to admit.

I rush down the hall, my footsteps echoing off the walls as I hurry to the stairs. When I get to the emergency exit, I can see her waiting by the curb. Surely, she has called for an Uber. I smooth my hair and take a breath before walking out.

"Maggie?" She spins around, her face looking hopeful, her eyes wide in the streetlight's glow.

I jog toward her and smile when I stop right in front of her. For two strangers, the lack of space between us could be considered assault. It's a very good sign that she hasn't stepped back. Being near her again has done a funny thing to my chest. The answer to my previous question is suddenly very clear. I want more than friendship. "Oh hey. Fancy meeting you here," she says, her voice light and teasing.

"I was in the neighborhood," I say, trying to match her tone.

"So, you do have a sense of humor." The smug expression on her face only makes her look all the more adorable.

"Not usually." We stare at each other. I hope she understands she has an effect on me that I'm tantalized by. If the growing red on her cheeks is any indication, she does. My gaze drifts down to her full lips. She smells good, like fresh oranges. Citrusy. It's positively alluring on her. I have never hurt for women. Part of that is knowing how to use my six-foot frame and dark eyes to lure them in. But Maggie is the one doing all the luring right now, and without even trying.

"Did you need something?" Did she not hear me? She brings something out in me. Something that's been dead for a long time. Yes, I need something. Her.

"Come out for drinks with me." I almost can't believe I'm asking that, but her face brightens, a smile lighting up her whole face.

"What about George?"

"Tilly can watch him." She studies my face for a moment, and her smile falters a bit. "I don't think Tilly likes me very much."

Me either, but I don't say that. Instead, I take her hand in mine. "Tilly doesn't like anyone at first. She's a very protective woman."

"Grayson, I can't get between you and your family. They have obviously done a lot for you." She sighs and pulls her hand away. "I came her to warn you and get information. Be careful, okay?" Her gaze lingers on me, a soft sadness reflecting back at me.

But I'm not that easily deterred. For one thing, if Tilly truly had an issue with what I'm doing, she would be down here, probably with a twin on each hip, demanding I return to my son upstairs. No, she might complain, but she won't interfere. A car is pulling into the lot, and her gaze shifts that way. "Trust me, Maggie, they couldn't care less. We've lived through danger our entire lives. Tommy and Tilly are probably up there joking about us and contracts on my life as we speak."

We both watch as the Prius rolls to a stop right next to her. "My ride's here, Grayson. Call me if you think of anything to help the case," she says. Damn. That hurts. A lot. For a woman that I don't know very well, I'm oddly affected by her decline.

But I don't want to let her go. I want to explore these feelings with her, more than anything else. Was she not up there with us? With George and me? There's something so easy between us, that I can't let her go without trying harder to make her see it.

I grip her shoulders and pull her close to me. I'm surprised to feel just how perfectly she fits against me, though she's a head shorter. It's rash, and if she tries to get away, I won't stop her, but her body relaxes against mine instantly. Sometimes, it can pay to put my pride on the line. A second rejection might have torn me up, but feeling her body warm against my chest was worth the risk.

"Mr. Cardenas, this could be considered assault on a police officer," she says, but her broad grin and teasing tone tell me a different story.

"Don't tempt me," I say, matching her playfulness. My hand slides up the back of her neck, under her ponytail. As I stroke my thumb over her skin and stare at her lips, I feel her heart rate pick up. Same thing mine is doing. Fuck. I'm ready to taste her. My whole body is begging for me to lower my face. But I have to wait, have to let it be her decision.

Maggie's hands fly to my face, and I brace myself for a slap. Instead, they land on my cheeks and tug me down to her. Our lips collide. My hands lower to her hips, and our bodies press together, touching from thigh to collarbone.

With a cautious feel, I let my tongue tease the seam of her lips. Her mouth opens, and I slip inside. Warmth invades all my senses, sending me careering into the sky. Every nerve is alive with sensations I haven't felt in years. Maybe longer. I can't remember the last time I was kissed like this. She moans against me. At the sound, my giant hands go to her ass, pulling her off the ground and pressing her back against the Uber.

I don't care that the driver is probably going to be pissed or that she's a detective or how I could be risking my job and house. All I can do is taste the quirky, sunshine-filled detective. The kiss is igniting something deep in my chest, like a bloom of color in my black-and-white world. The crawl of tingles across my skin sinks into my very bones.

Her hands drop, but only to slide up the back of my shirt. Bare fingers brush onto my skin, lighting my world on fire.

She pulls her mouth away, and I suck on her neck. "Oh, that's good," she says in a breathy whisper. Some sort of animalistic roar builds in my stomach as my cock stiffens. I angle my hip to press it against her. She whimpers into my chest, and I can't stop the long sigh that I breathe out.

"Maggie, come get drinks with me," I say between nibbles. Her eyes shoot open. The moment is shattered. Maggie's warm amber eyes meet mine, swirling with confusion. She's panting but doesn't look away. I set her down and back a single step away.

"I'm working. I'm a detective," she says as if reminding herself.

I lean back. There's something I can't read in her expression, but it's very close to regret. "Right," I say and straighten the bottom of my shirt. She had untucked my polo in the back to get her beautiful fingers on my skin.

The Uber driver cracks his window. "Uh, lady. You're Margaret P., right?" She nods without looking away.

"I'm gonna go, Grayson, but uh, thanks for dinner." Her tone has gone back to the clipped detective mode, and my heart shatters.

But as she turns, there's a screech down the road. Tires shriek against the asphalt, and I see a car flying toward us, its engine roaring like a beast unleashed. The evening air suddenly shifts, a prickling sensation crawling up my spine as adrenaline kicks in. The car is low and sleek, windows tinted enough that I can't see inside at all. Until the window smoothly rolls down.

Something glints in the lowering sunlight.

Maggie understands a second before I do. Her voice bites out, "Gun! Down!"

She drops to the ground, and for a moment, I'm too stunned to move. The realization crashes over me, and I hear the rapid-fire pops of gunshots, a staccato burst that echoes in the night. The Uber driver isn't waiting around; his tires squeal as he speeds off, leaving us exposed in the harsh glow of the streetlight.

Without thinking, I dive onto Maggie, the impact of our bodies hitting the pavement knocking the wind from my lungs. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm as the barrage of bullets sprays in our direction, a deadly hailstorm that seems to go on forever.

My entire body covers hers, shielding her from the violence raining down. The smell of burnt gunpowder hangs heavy in the air, acrid and metallic. Maggie pushes me back, her movements quick and precise. "He's out, even with an extended mag." Her voice is steady, focused. I get up, wincing at the sting of scraped skin, but the car is already squealing away, tires burning rubber as it disappears into the night.

She scrambles to her feet, her eyes scanning the road. "License plate!"

I look over and instantly memorize the numbers, my brain latching onto the detail with a clarity born of panic. Brushing off my pants, I try to find some sort of bravado. My hands are shaking slightly, a betrayal of the fear still coursing through my veins. "Fucking gangs."

She's already on her phone, her fingers moving with practiced speed as she talks to an emergency operator. "Plates?" she asks, glancing at me. I give them, and she repeats them into the phone, her voice a calm anchor in the storm of my thoughts.

"San Diego PD is on the way." I scan her up and down, my eyes catching on a tear in her jacket. There's a dark stain spreading across the fabric. My stomach twists with a mix of rage and worry.

"You're bleeding," I say. But internally, my mind is reeling. She's hurt. My chest feels tight, a band of iron constricting around my heart. With an almost lazy gaze, she looks down at her bicep where her jacket has ripped, revealing a graze slick with blood.

"Oh yeah. Look at that." Her voice is light, almost dismissive, but I can see the pain in the tightness of her mouth.

My finger extends out and pries the hole open slightly. It looks like she has been grazed by a bullet, the wound raw and angry against her pale skin.

The fury is immediate. It twists in my gut like a six-inch blade. Someone shot at her. With a jerky movement, I grip her wrist, the pulse beneath my fingers a reassuring thrum of life, and start dragging her back toward the building, urgency propelling me forward.

My surroundings blur around me as I walk, not really seeing all the people standing around whispering about what happened. Their voices are a distant murmur, meaningless against the roar of my own emotions. I get to my condo and throw open the door, the slam against the wall echoing like a gunshot. But I don't bother closing it.

Tilly is talking to me, her words a rush of concern, but I don't answer. I take Maggie straight to the bathroom, the harsh light flickering on above us. Under the sink is a first aid kit, and I pull it out, laying it open on the counter with hands that are finally steady. "Sit."

She sits on the toilet seat, the porcelain cool beneath her, and removes her suit jacket with a wince. I get out the antiseptic and a bandage. Kneeling on the hard tile, I unbutton her blouse with careful fingers, and she gingerly pulls one sleeve down. Without a word, I gently dab the antiseptic on, the scent sharp and medicinal.

The graze isn't very deep, a shallow wound that nonetheless looks painful. I'm satisfied she doesn't need stitches or further attention. I place the bandage over it, smoothing it into place with tender care, and look up at her eyes.

"I haven't been bandaged like that since I was six," she says, her face beaming despite the ordeal. Her smile is a light in the dim room, infectious and genuine.

"Well, I am a dad." I lean forward and tenderly peck the bandage. Too quickly, I stand back up, nearly coughing out an apology at my rash action. But she grabs my wrist. Where she's touching feels warm, and I look at it, surprised by the comfort her touch brings. Adrenaline is coursing through me. Not only from the shooting. That kiss... It's made me almost high. Now that she's touching me again, all those feelings burst back to the surface.

"You're bleeding too." She points to my shirt, a dark patch spreading across the fabric. I furrow my brow. There isn't much in my wardrobe yet, and that's going to stain. When I don't immediately check under my clothes, she starts pulling at the bottom, her movements brisk and no-nonsense.

"What are you doing?"

"You might have been shot," she says. She has to know it's from her wound but, for some reason, that doesn't stop her from what she's doing. Her fingers brush at the skin under my shirt before she's tugging the fabric over my head. She's smaller than me and has to rise up on her tiptoes to get it off.

She gets to work searching my body, her dainty hands touching my abs and then my pecs as she scrutinizes every inch. Her touch is clinical, but I feel a spark of something more, a heat that pools low in my belly. I flex, and she makes a small choked sound.

I smile. "I think you're enjoying this."

Her face flushes. "I'm a professional, Mr. Cardenas. Thorough." Her voice is dry, but there's a glint in her eyes that belies her words.

My cock twitches at the way her mouth wraps around my last name. "Mmm, clearly." Her fingers remain on my chest, lingering over my skin, sending tiny electric shocks through my system.

There's a knock on the bathroom door. "Daddy, I gotta pee." George's voice has reached that whining, desperate pitch. He can't wait. Not wanting George to see the blood on either of us, I hand Maggie her blazer but leave my shirt bundled up on the counter. Only then do I open the door.

But George isn't alone. Tilly is standing there, her foot tapping, with one eyebrow arched, a question hanging in the air.

"Anyone want to tell me what's going on? We heard G-U-N shots." Her voice is low, a thread of tension running through it.

There's a red and blue flash in the window, and I know we need to speak with the police. "Later." I move away from Maggie, who is staring at the ground, her shoulders tense.

"I'm gonna go talk to the SDPD. They'll probably want your statement, Grayson."

I nod, and with a final lingering glance, she smiles before walking away, her footsteps echoing down the hallway like a promise unspoken.

When she's gone, Tilly explodes. "I'm not about to sit around and watch—"

"I really don't want you to watch. I'm not into that, especially not with my cousin." I have no patience for a lecture, but apparently, I have it for jokes. Odd.

Tommy laughs in the living room and I crack a small grin. That's a victory. Tilly might try to act like she's a poisonous spider, but it's impossible when she's in love with a Labrador. She can fling her venom my way all she wants, but the moment her husband wags his tail, I can see what a true softy she really is.

Tilly scoffs. "Grayson…"

I smile at her and walk out of the bathroom. "Tilly, I'm a grown man. What could possibly be wrong with flirting?"

We're next to Tommy now and he's nodding along. "And she's hot, babe. Like cute little firecracker kinda hot."

Tilly glares over her shoulder at her boyfriend, and I'm very much enjoying it. My cousin isn't used to being told what to do. Clearly, her boyfriend doesn't care.

"Cute or not, George doesn't need to be confused right now."

All amusement leaves the room. My nostrils flare. Telling me what to do is one thing, but attacking my parenting is altogether unwarranted. "You should go." It's difficult to ask her to leave; we went through that earlier. But I found my backbone the minute George was brought into this argument.

She rolls her eyes, but her shoulders slump. "I'm not trying to be harsh, but I want this. Us. A family. If bringing in some nosy detective threatens that, then I'm going to say something."

Shit. She has me there. Here I thought she had control issues when really, she has protective issues. And her point isn't moot. I've been to jail, yes, but it doesn't mean they know of every crime I've ever committed. One wrong word to the wrong person and I could be right back in prison. "I'm careful," I say.

Tommy adjusts on the couch, making it do the ridiculous squeak. I almost let a grin slip at the memory of Maggie's adorable blush when it happened to her. The way her cheeks turned that rosy hue was unforgettable. "Til, he's sowing his wild oats. Give him a break," Tommy says, his voice light and teasing.

"Ew, Tommy," Tilly replies, her tone tinged with exasperation as she rolls her eyes.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort anyway," I interject, feeling the need to defend myself. "Now, I need to speak with the police, and George needs a bath." My voice is firm, a quiet assertion of my priorities.

She eyes me, her gaze assessing, clearly still wary but not willing to push further. Finally, she gives a stiff nod, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Boys, let's go." Her voice softens as she calls to her children, a tender note that I rarely hear from her.

As the pair gathers their twins, I stay out of the way, watching the organized chaos unfold. It's still a bit jarring to see Tilly as a mother, but she's doing a wonderful job. The way she juggles everything with determined grace is impressive, especially with her blind son, who navigates the world with a confidence that speaks volumes about Tilly's nurturing. I can't imagine how difficult it is, but Tilly never complains. Her boys are obviously the light of her world—all of them, including her boyfriend.

I wonder when the two will get married, then decide it's none of my business. If she's happy, who am I to push her towards a silly paper contract? Mine didn't do a lot of good anyway. Tommy helps one of the twins into his jacket with a gentle hand. The sight tugs at something in my chest, a mix of nostalgia and quiet longing for something I once had.

The four leave, and I go to my room to find a new shirt. The fabric is soft against my skin, a comfort I hadn't realized I needed. With it on, I pick up my son and head downstairs, silently hoping Maggie is still around.

The evening air is cool and crisp when I step outside, a gentle breeze wafting through the trees. It's oddly calming against the backdrop of flashing police lights and curious onlookers.

With George in my arms, his little hands clutching at my shirt, I look around for her. When I see her, my smile is involuntary, even if she is getting into an SDPD police car. Our eyes lock, but hers aren't staring at me like I had hoped. They're full of regret and possibly sadness. Not good. Not good at all.