Evelyn's dream of securing a scholarship to America's top ballet school shattered when her mother was brutally murdered during her teenage years. Determined to make a difference, she became a detective, ready to take on the world. Assigned to invest...
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The next day Jeremiah stood in his kitchen, surrounded by towers of cardboard boxes. Twenty at least, each one packed with bottles of rum, whiskey, gin, olive oil, vinegar, tins of tomatoes, sacks of flour, anything the clubhouse needed to keep running. His hands moved automatically, pulling bottles free, lining them up along the counter before arranging them neatly on the shelves. The speakers behind him rattled with heavy bass, the kind that seemed to pulse through his ribcage.
He tried to keep his thoughts to the work, but every time he reached into a box, he caught himself thinking of her. The detective. That sharp-tongued, maddeningly beautiful woman who sneaked through their world as if she owned it. He pictured her striding across their territory, all confidence and fire, looking so damn irresistible even when she was being a thorn in Zeus' and Ice's sides. A grin curled his mouth at the image of her pushing them to their limits, making the two hardest men he knew lose their composure. Yet beneath the smile, an unease pressed against him. She hadn't been herself since yesterday. Evelyn usually brought an edge of lightness with her, even when she was teasing them to the brink. But since coming back, she had turned quiet, distant, like a flame dimmed low.
A soft throat-clear broke through the music, he stilled. He turned, and there she was. Evelyn, standing in the doorway, her eyes lowering to the mess of boxes and bottles around him.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice quiet but clear enough to cut through the music. Jeremiah caught himself straightening, his back aching from hours of crouching on the floor.
"You don't need to," he muttered with a faint smirk, trying to play it off as he set down the oil bottles.
"I get paid to do this." But when his gaze lifted, he caught the way her eyes lingered on the boxes, almost yearning, as though the simple act of helping would give her something to hold onto. He knew that look.
"If you really want to," Jeremiah said, jerking his chin towards the nearest box.
"You can start with that one." The tension in her frame eased the moment he gave her permission. She slipped into the space as if she belonged there, crouching beside the cardboard and pulling out jars and bottles. He felt his chest loosen watching her. Maybe she needed this as much as he needed her company. For a few minutes they worked side by side, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the thump of glass against wood, the music filling the silence between them. Jeremiah kept stealing glances at her. She wore a dark hoodie stamped with the police crest, baggy cargo-style trousers bristling with pockets, her weapon holstered at her side. She looked out of place here, and yet she fit so perfectly into the scene.
"Evelyn," he said at last. Her head lifted, those weary eyes dragging up to meet his. He saw how her lashes trembled, how exhaustion clung to her face.
"Are you feeling alright? You look tired." His voice came out softer than he intended, carrying his worry. He wanted to step forward and place a hand to her forehead, wanted to know if she was sick. But she only offered him a small smile, the kind that pretended everything was fine.
