by Elise Faber
It was supposed to be untraceable, so they shouldn’t have been able to trace it back to us.
But it wasn’t supposed to have been noticed in the first place.
And that hadn’t gone well, had it?
I’d spent who knew how many hours trying to stay ahead of whomever was on the other end, trying to extract the program without them discovering my presence. It had been a challenging shell game, hiding out amongst the code, deleting and adding in secrecy.
Until I’d managed to extract the program. Hopefully, successfully. But I’d strengthened my firewalls and put every and any security procedure in place that I could think of, just in case.
The unfortunate part was that I hadn’t been able to get the information KTS had been after. I’d retrieved some stuff that was good for them to know, but the big smoking gun that prosecutors could use and/or the locations of their operatives in the U.S. hadn’t been retrieved.
And I fucking hated that I hadn’t been able to get my part of the job done.
Even though Laila—my contact at the secret semi-sanctioned government agency—hadn’t been mad when I’d reached out to her, we’d both been disappointed that we hadn’t gotten what we needed to take the bad guys down.
Neither of us liked to fail.
But I hated more that the failure was on my shoulders.
“Shit,” I muttered. “And in all of that, I didn’t even acknowledge that Archer brought me coffee and a croissant”—I focused on the clock on my computer, saw it was just past four—“almost eight hours ago.”
Processing the time meant that I suddenly became aware of several things, all at once. One, I desperately needed to pee. Two, I was really, really thirsty. Three, I could eat a dozen more of those croissants. And four, probably the most important of all these things, was that I needed to call Archer immediately and apologize.
I snatched my cell from my desk, scrolled to his number, and dialed.
It rang once and went to voicemail, causing my heart to sink.
“Fuck,” I whispered, moving out of my office and heading to my bathroom to take care of business then to wash my hands and face, to brush my teeth and turn myself into something that resembled a human.
Then I pushed into my closet, changed, and went downstairs.
I’d fuel up, call him again.
And if he didn’t pick up, I was grabbing three cans of tiny raviolis, my loaf of white bread from the fridge, and I was making the man the only dinner I knew how.
I saw the bakery box first.
Then I saw the note.
My heart hiccupped in my chest. My fingers trembled when I reached out to touch it, as though the slip of paper was going to disappear upon contact, as though Archer was going to disappear.
Because chocolate croissants and notes. Coffee and homemade dinners. Chocolate chip pancakes and ice cream sundaes.
Though, I’d made the last.
So maybe I was contributing to feeding our stomachs, at least a little bit.
With refined sugar and extra calories and artificial dyes. Not the best.
Also . . . meh. It was something.
My fingertips touched the scrap of paper, and it didn’t disappear; it didn’t just puff away into smoke. Instead, it crinkled, and I picked it up, read slowly, the words moving from my eyes to my brain to my heart in one warm slide.
“Archer,” I murmured, holding the paper to my chest.
I read it again because I quite literally couldn’t stop myself.
Come by whenever you’re done, no matter the hour.
But if you’re still working at seven, I’m coming over and hauling you away from that godforsaken machine.
No arguments. You must listen to the man you’re dating (some might say your boyfriend).
-A
P.S. My guest spot is number twenty-six.
I laughed out loud at the last, even as my emotions swept up and jerked through me like rapids, threatening to pull me under, pushing me this way and that. Until suddenly I was on the other side. The water was still, and so were my emotions. Because . . .
Boyfriend.
Boyfriend.
That should be terrifying.
But instead it was . . . comforting, and also something I wanted so fucking much. If I wasn’t living small. If I was pushing outward, an explosion spreading over the earth, expanding until I encompassed everything I’d ever hoped for.
I could do that.
I could go after what I wanted, what I needed. I could have something good, someone who loved me for me.
I could have a man who didn’t care that I’d ignored him for work.
Who was thoughtful and didn’t care if I fit into a perfect, orderly box.
I could . . .
Get the hell out of my head, leave the baggage firmly behind, and live a giant, no-holds-barred life.
But first—
I ran upstairs, tucked the note carefully in the locked drawer of my desk. Then I headed to the garage, got into my car, and I drove to Archer’s apartment.
I’d parked in spot twenty-six.
I’d knocked.
I’d waited.
I’d called.
And waited some more.
But he didn’t answer my call or come to the door, and . . . frankly, I was starting to feel more than a little insecure. He’d left the note. He’d said to come. He’d—
“Enough, Dom—Niki,” I corrected. “He probably got pulled away to something. You’re reading too much into this.”
Except, the spot next to twenty-six was his spot.
And his car was there. And he wasn’t picking up his phone.
My stomach decided to take up hurdles in my torso, a rise-fall ending with a heavy impact, over and over again. Because . . . what if something had happened and he was hurt or ill inside?
What if—
“Fuck this,” I murmured, going back to my car and getting in.
Not because I was going home, but instead because I was retrieving my lockpicks from my center console. Before I’d focused in on unearthing important data, I’d been with a security company, and they’d taught all their techs several useful skills—how to pick a lock, how to avoid getting your face on security cameras, and how to lose a tail.
I’d never had a need to use any of them.
Until today.
Though, I couldn’t lie and say that I hadn’t been itching to pull out my expertise. I just had hoped it would be under far more exciting and far less nerve-wracking circumstances.
Regardless of nerves and itching, I made my way back up the steps and paused outside Archer’s door.
Just to do my due diligence, I knocked again, I called once more.
When neither received a response, I opened the small leather bifold and pulled out the tension wrench and a feeler pick. Then I crouched in front of the door handle, inserted them into the lock, and got to work.
“Whatcha doing?”
I shrieked, dropped the tools where they clanged loudly off the concrete floor, and straightened, covering them with my shoe as I turned to face the man in the hallway. “Nothing,” I said, tucking my hands behind me in an effort to shove the rest of my kit into my pocket.
He crossed his arms, a smirk on his face. “Didn’t look like nothing.”
“I—”
Normally, I might have been able to withstand the man’s penetrating expression, to put on some front that sent him screaming and running away, so I could get back to lockpicking my way into Archer’s apartment.
Instead, I was truly worried about my boyfriend.
Which was the only reason I could think of for me giving up any pretense and asking, “Do you know Archer? He asked me to come by, and now he’s not answering the door or his phone, and I’m worried he might be hurt or sick inside.” The man started to shake his head, brows pulling down to frame hazel eyes. “Well, do you have the landlord’s number? I think someone should have a spare key to go in, just in case. Just to make sure
he’s okay—”
The man shook his head again. “I don’t have the landlord’s number.”
Frustration coursed through me, and I bent to pick up my tools, not bothering to hide my intention now. “Fine,” I said. “Then I’m going in, and I’m going to make sure he’s okay, and if you have a problem with that, you can just try and stop me.”
The man waved a hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I narrowed my eyes, something familiar about his tone or the words or maybe his face, but I couldn’t spend too much time on that.
Not when Archer may be bleeding out on the floor inside.
I inserted the tension wrench, went to work with my pick, flicking the pins into proper alignment with quick clicks, and then I was in, pushing the door open and stepping inside. “Feel free to call the cops if you must,” I said, when I noticed that the man was recording me with his cell. “Or to trail me inside. I’m not here to steal anything. I just want to—”
“Do some breaking and entering?” he asked.
I sighed, shook my head, and pocketed my tools. “I’m not—” And then I cut myself off, because the whole bleeding on the floor thing might be happening, and I had more important things to do than try to explain things to a stranger. When I saved Archer’s life, he could explain.
The kitchen was empty, as was the bedroom and bathroom.
Which left only one place.
The studio.
I pushed open the door, was momentarily blindsided by a gorgeous landscape of sea green and deep aquamarine before I realized that the studio, too, was empty.
“Find anything?” the man from the hall asked, leaning against the door.
I spun in a circle. “He’s not here,” I whispered.
That smirk widened. “Apparently not.”
“I—”
He held up his cell. “Should I call the police, now? Or did you want to steal something first—”
“Lucas?” Archer called. “Where are you?”
Relief poured through me. He wasn’t hurt or bleeding somewhere. He just hadn’t . . . picked up my calls? Okay, that didn’t feel so great. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but Lucas, apparently, lifted a hand, shook his head.
“Hey fuck head!” Archer called. “You made me carry these bags all the way home without helping, so the least you can do is come out here and put them away.”
I blinked.
Lucas just shook his head again.
Archer’s voice came closer. “Where are—What the fuck are you doing in my studi . . . oh?”
My heart did a tiny somersault, thrusting itself against my rib cage.
No bruises or obvious injuries. No blood or gore.
Just two full arms of groceries.
“Niki?” he said.
I nodded.
“You know her?” Lucas asked, and when Archer nodded, added, “Then you should probably know that she was breaking into your apartment, and I caught her.”
Archer’s gaze came to mine, some emotion in the hazel depths that I couldn’t decipher. Was it disappointment? Disgust that I’d violated his space by breaking in? All my security skills didn’t seem quite so useful now. “But you didn’t actually stop the would-be burglar,” he said dryly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Well, I didn’t actually know for certain that she was a burglar.” A shrug. “So, I decided to keep an eye on her, just in case.”
Archer sighed, held my stare for another heartbeat before turning away.
He disappeared.
I’d be lying if I said my stomach didn’t return for another round on that roller coaster, looping this way and that, swooping and dipping, and generally making me nauseated.
My fingers clenched around the lockpicks; that sick feeling made its way from my stomach, up my throat, burning as it traveled. “I—”
One more shake of Lucas’s head.
And . . .
I lost it.
Who the fuck was this man to shake his head at me, to lift his hand, and to just expect me to fall silent? Fuck that!
I’d given him too much power over me because I was disoriented, standing on a shifting dune of sand, slipping this way and that as I waited to get a handle on the situation.
Well, I needed to stop waiting.
I needed . . . I took a step forward, and the cocky bastard started to raise his hand again, and . . .
I snapped.
With a sharp sigh, I shoved the tools in my pocket and pushed past him, knocking him back a pace when he moved to intercept me.
One hand grabbed my arm, his other snagged the lockpicking paraphernalia out of my pocket. “Wait—”
“Let go,” I growled, yanking out of his grip, snagging the tools back. I whirled forward and . . . plowing straight into Archer’s chest. “Oof!”
Warm arms wrapped around me, steadied me at the same time I was pressed to all the yummy strength of his body, his scent covering me like a blanket, making me feel like I was home. For one brief second.
Because.
Then I remembered the look on his face.
“You said to come over, so I did. And then I called and knocked,” I explained. “But nobody answered—”
“That tends to happen when someone isn’t home,” Lucas pointed out.
“Shut up,” Archer barked.
“So then I was there, outside the door, after I’d called and knocked, and I got worried that something had happened, and you were inside hurt.” I bit my lip. “So, I called and knocked again. And then . . .”
“You decided to break in,” Lucas said.
“I said, shut up,” Archer gritted, his arms tightening around me for a moment before he slowly drew me away from his chest, wincing when the lockpicking tools jabbed him in the chest. Pausing, he snagged them from my limp fingers and slipped them into his pocket. Then he drew me close again. I didn’t want to go, feeling strangely vulnerable, wanting to hide against him forever, lest he see too much. That he’d see what I felt for him eclipsed anything I’d ever felt for anyone.
As in, ever.
Archer’s palm came to my cheek, the rough callouses the sweetest abrasion. “You were worried.”
I swallowed. Hard. Nodded.
“So, you broke in?”
Another swallow. Another nod.
Emotion in his eyes, and then his arms banded tightly around me again. “Fuck, Niki. You’re killing me,” he whispered. “I was just hoping to convince you to let me take care of you, to coax you into spending as much time with me as physically possible.” His arms got a little tighter. “I didn’t think you’d . . . well, I hoped, but I thought it would take time for you to want to take care of me back.”
“You’re not mad I broke in?”
He leaned back again. His lips curved. “God no. I’ll give you a spare key,” he said. “Come and go whenever you want.”
My lungs stuttered, breath sliding in and out.
“Okay?” he asked.
I bit my lip, released it. “Okay,” I murmured. “I can give you one, too.” My mouth turned up. “I know that I can get distracted while I work.”
He grinned, ran his knuckles over my cheek. “I noticed that.”
A flash of something . . . of guilt? Through his eyes. “What?” I asked.
Archer shifted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out . . . my spare key. “I borrowed this.” He shrugged, his expression going chagrined. “I was going to return it . . . okay, no, I was going to hold on to it.” He smiled. “I figured if you got mad, I’d just bribe you with food, and—”
Laughter bubbled up inside me, and I closed his fingers around the key. “Keep it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
His smile stole my breath, and I didn’t get it back because then his mouth was slanting across mine, his tongue slipping inside, his body against me, his arms wrapped tight, and I lost myself in the kiss, in the scent of him.
At least until there was a loud noise breaking
in on my bliss.
A throat clearing.
Archer released me with a curse, tucked me against his side, and turned to glare at Lucas.
“I think it’s time for you to introduce me to the woman you’re sucking face with,” he said, his hazel eyes dancing.
Hazel eyes.
Hazel eyes.
Fucking hell. If my arms weren’t pinned against Archer’s body, I would have reached up and smacked myself across the forehead.
Lucas wasn’t familiar because I had seen him before.
“Your Archer’s brother!” I exclaimed, feeling like a dolt that it took me that long to recognize that fact.
Lucas smiled, tapped his fingers to his brow in a salute. “One and the same.” He smirked. “How many good things has he told you about me?”
I paused, amused despite myself. “A lot actually.”
Lucas’s smile grew.
“She means nothing,” Archer muttered. “I told her you were a pain in my ass, who never knows when to shut up. Especially, when he’s a pain in the ass who just shows up out of the blue without any warning.”
“Had to check up on my big bro.”
Archer rolled his eyes then tugged me toward him as he towed us toward the kitchen. “Hungry?” he asked, coaxing me into a chair as he began going through the bags. “I got stuff to make Bolognese.”
“He’s already made the pasta dough,” Lucas said, sliding into the stool next to me. “I helped.”
“By helping, he means by generally being annoying.”
Lucas buffed his knuckles on his shoulder. “That’s my expertise.” He dodged when Archer threw an orange at his head, the fruit bouncing off the wall behind him with a thunk, rattling the paintings I’d admired the first time I’d come here.
“Come over here and help me put the groceries away,” Archer said, and I started to push myself off the seat, but he pointed a finger in my direction. “Not you,” he grumbled. “You,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Lucas. “You’re not a guest, so get your ass up off that stool.”
“I—”
Archer rounded the island, bent over me and slanted his mouth across mine, his kiss hot and intense and . . . tragically brief.
Because he released me, grabbed his brother’s shirt sleeve and brought them both to the other side of the counter. “Groceries,” he ordered and turned to the stove.