by Elise Faber
“Speaking of getting laid . . .” She trailed off, not leaving any question that she wanted me to finish that statement.
“Do I need to circle back to Tammy and my business is Tammy and my business?”
She held my eyes, and usually, I would have given in.
I was an easygoing guy, for the most part.
My childhood had made my sticking points few and far between—when a kid was just doing his level best to survive, sticking points were really for those who had the luxury to actually have them—but when I had one, I didn’t cave.
No matter what.
I just made sure to only fight battles that mattered.
Shifting my eyes from hers back to the pan, I flipped the omelet and waited.
Not long, because she knew me, knew the truth about my sticking points. She sighed and muttered, “No, you don’t. But Tal—”
“Mags,” I warned.
She pushed on, resting her head on my shoulder. “She’s a good person. She’s been through—” Cutting herself off, she straightened, carried the grater to the sink. “Just . . . please, treat her with kindness. She deserves that and so much more.”
My heart pounded in my chest, the need to delve deeper, to find out what she’d been through great.
But it wasn’t Mags’ story to tell.
It was Tammy’s.
So, I just turned back to the pan, removed the first omelet, and asked, “You think she’ll want the works, too?”
Chapter Fourteen
Tammy
I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.
But once I’d started, once I’d heard Maggie say She’s fine. You’re fine. We’ll sort this out, I hadn’t been able to stop.
At first, I’d thought the sorting out was getting me to leave.
But then I’d heard Tal curse the paparazzi and had remembered the flashes from the night before and quickly realized that the sorting out wasn’t about them trying to get me to do an extra-long walk of shame. Rather, it was about how to navigate the troves of photographers apparently clustered outside.
As I was processing that—wondering what the photographs looked like, wondering how bad it was if they, as people in the industry, were concerned, wondering what my brother would think, what the guys at the department would say at me having saved some big shot—Mags and Talbots’ conversation had grown lighter . . . and I’d been struck mute.
On one hand, I was a little jealous of their obvious closeness. On the other, I was exceptionally touched by the way Talbot had refused to explain himself or our . . . interlude—and I was sticking with calling it an interlude—to Maggie.
He’d said it was something that was between us.
That sounded nice.
To be an us.
I hadn’t really ever been part of an us, not even in my marriage. So, at least, I hadn’t been in an us since I was six years old, and my mom had died. My dad had stepped up, raising my brother and me by himself, but there still hadn’t been an us, still hadn’t been that connection, that closeness. And I’d missed it terribly—the cooking together in the kitchen, the cuddles in bed, the walking me to school. As an adult, I could understand that my dad had been reeling, had just been trying to survive the loss of his wife, his sudden role becoming the primary caregiver. He’d needed to become the one to remember school lunches and special events, who’d been responsible for birthday parties and taking me to buy new clothes. But he’d been in over his head, and as a consequence, my brother and I had fended for ourselves a lot.
And we’d missed out on a lot. No big parties, no special lunches, no cute clothes. He hadn’t remembered to buy tickets to the school carnival, and he certainly hadn’t left me handwritten notes in my lunchbox.
Different.
It had all become so different.
I’d taken on a lot, certainly too much, but also not enough, because we’d drifted apart, those ties my mom had built, the ones keeping us together, stretching taut, some severing altogether.
Eventually, it had been my dad, my brother, and I, all existing in three separate spheres. Different planets orbiting the sun, none ever getting close enough to interact.
And I’d missed it. Missed my mom, missed my family.
I’m sure that’s why I started looking for that connection in others, why several of my list of twenty men weren’t just because I’d been looking for a fun time. I’d used them to search for something deeper . . . and I hadn’t found it.
Not even during my short-lived marriage. It had been him and a me, Steven and Tammy, two separate bubbles of living, and those domains had never fully meshed.
I was searching and searching and never finding.
Then I just hadn’t been able to take it anymore.
I’d rather be on my own than coming home every day, looking into the eyes of a man who said he loved me, but if he did, it wasn’t in the right way. He didn’t light up when he saw me, didn’t know when I was hurting or sad inside, when I needed to be coddled or pushed. Perhaps, it was me freezing him out, me so used to being that isolated sphere, but Steven also hadn’t loved me enough to push his way in.
He, just like my dad, had been happy to let the status quo slide.
And every day, I’d felt increasingly smothered by the warring of expectations and hopes and reality, their fingers wrapping around my neck and slowly, inexorably tightening.
Until . . . I hadn’t been able to breathe.
Goodbye Denver, hello Chicago. Then Salt Lake. Then . . . right back in Darlington, still searching for something, and still not finding it.
Sighing, I straightened my shoulders, prepared myself to enter the kitchen.
Then Maggie spoke again. “She’s a good person. She’s been through—” A pause. “Just . . . please, treat her with kindness. She deserves that and so much more.”
My heart squeezed, and I couldn’t decide if I should be filled with happiness that she obviously cared deeply or mortification that she thought she needed to counsel someone to treat me nicely. That she thought I needed pity kindness.
Either. Both. All three.
I wanted to run, but I’d been standing in the hall, frozen, listening to them to talk for going on five minutes. I needed to go in and face the gauntlet. Later I could untangle the rest of what was happening in my brain.
“You think she’ll want the works, too?” I heard Talbot ask.
And I knew I just needed to get this over with. Forcing my feet to move, to carry me into the kitchen, I said, “The works sounds great.”
Two pairs of eyes turned in my direction, two gazes settled on me—wary and hopeful, Talbot’s; curious and tentative, Maggie’s.
“Morning,” I said cheerfully.
Talbot poured eggs into a pan, topped it with some colorful ingredients and cheese, then crossed over to me, those gold eyes holding mine. He brushed the backs of his knuckles lightly down my throat, making my skin pebble with goose bumps, my pulse increase to a rapid tattoo in my veins. “You okay?”
Unable to speak, as was far too often the case with this man, I just nodded.
“Your arm?”
“Fine,” I managed.
“I’ll rebandage it after omelets.”
My lips parted, a protest on the edge of them—something along the lines of I can take care of that—but he’d already turned back to the stove, where he executed some crazy wrist-flick, pan-jerk thing and effortlessly flipped the omelet on the pan, before crossing the kitchen, picking up a plate and handing it to Maggie. “Eat,” he ordered. “Before it gets cold.”
Maggie—who I’d purposefully been avoiding looking at until that moment, for obvious reasons—was raptly watching us, her eyes going from me to Talbot and back again.
But, to her credit, she didn’t comment, just picked up her fork.
Or, I should say she didn’t comment on the whole finding-us-naked thing. Instead, she looked at me. “I heard you were hurt,” she said gently. “You okay?”
I nodded. “
Just wasn’t fast enough to avoid the knife. It’s not a bad . . . what?”
She shook herself, crossing over to me, taking my hand, and bringing me over to the stools. “You’re talking about getting stabbed by a knife like it’s not a big deal.”
“I barely even felt it,” I said, giving in to her shepherding me onto the stool and just sitting down. “I’m not trying to say it didn’t hurt, especially afterward. But adrenaline is a wonderful and powerful drug.”
“But not illicit,” Talbot murmured in my ear, making me jump. He kissed the lobe before I could react further and set a plate in front of me, and then Maggie’s again forgotten plate in front of her. “She’s a tough chick,” he told my friend. “I hadn’t even processed what was happening when she’d already reacted, ordering the man to the ground.” He leaned on the counter, hip next to my elbow. I could feel the heat of him, wanted to drift closer so I could lean against him.
“It doesn’t bother you that she saved the day, and you were just standing there?”
“No,” he said. “Would I have loved to have superhero skills like her, being able to take out a bad guy with ease? Sure. But was I also so damned thankful she was there? Yes.”
“I’m right here,” I muttered, reaching for the fork that was laid out on the plate and scooping a huge bite into my mouth.
“I know,” Talbot said, tugging lightly at a strand of my damp hair.
Which, by the way, felt like absolute silk after those miracle products.
“I hate that she got hurt,” he continued, not releasing the strand, making me shiver as he rolled it between thumb and forefinger. “That’s what I’m upset about. Not that she had the skill to protect herself, and luckily for my sorry ass, me as well.”
“Well—” Maggie began.
“Did they find out who the perpetrator was?” was my desperate attempt to get the conversational topic off me.
I couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel good, the nice things they were saying.
It was just . . . too much.
Plus, the painkillers were starting to wear off.
Silence.
Then Maggie nodded. “Not yet,” she whispered. “It’s still touch and go. He survived the surgery, but when the police searched his belongings and the immediate area, they didn’t find any identification.” A beat. “I don’t think it’ll be long, though. The pictures are everywhere. Someone will ID him soon enough.”
I froze with the fork an inch from my mouth. “Define everywhere.”
Talbot nudged my plate closer. “Eat your omelet first.”
I glanced up at him. “And where’s yours?”
A smile, a nod toward the stove. “There.”
“And don’t you have to do your fancy wrist-flick thing to turn it?”
“Probably,” he said. But didn’t move.
Sighing, I scooped up my abandoned bite, shoved it into my mouth, and only then did he release my hair, push away from the counter, and head back to the cooktop. He did the wrist-flick, and I watched him as he put the omelet on his own plate.
“Are you okay?” Maggie asked quietly. “Like really, actually, okay?”
I tore my gaze from his back, from the hard lines I’d had my hands all over not long before. I faced my friend. “I’m really okay,” I whispered. “I promise.”
She patted my forearm. “This is going to be rough,” she said, voice still quiet, gentleness having invaded, as well. “They are going to be relentless, going to be desperate to find out every last thing about you and your family.” A beat. “If you haven’t called Mark, you should.”
“My brother doesn’t want to hear from me,” I said. “I can promise you that much.”
Another pat, sympathetic this time. “I still think you should call him. You can give him my contact information, just so he has a lifeline in case anything gets really bad on his front.”
She was being logical.
I didn’t want that logic. I’d been burned by my brother more than a few times over the last years, striving for a connection, even moving to Salt Lake to be closer to him and his family. I’d switched departments, leaving the PD in Chicago for just that reason—well, for that reason and also the windchill—but I’d only been in town for three months before he’d up and moved his family to Seattle.
Leaving me to fend for myself.
Again.
Sigh.
“I’ll call him,” I said. “Except—”
“What?”
“My purse and suitcase were in the car, both of which I’m assuming are evidence now.”
Talbot dragged a stool closer, sitting right next to me, making it very difficult for me to focus on anything except for the fact that he was so near, and I wanted to spend more quality time with his body.
Mags’ gaze flicked over my shoulder then she rolled her eyes and ate another bite of her food.
“The car is in my garage,” he said. “Your purse and suitcase are by the front door.”
I glanced down at my body, positively swimming in his T-shirt and sweatpants. “Then why am I wearing your clothes?”
An unrepentant grin. “Because I wanted you to.”
My mouth fell open.
Then Maggie chuckled, and I glared at her then twisted to glare at Talbot for good measure. “Neither of you are funny.”
Hot breath in my ear. “Good thing I wasn’t trying to be.”
I shivered, found myself leaning closer. I really shouldn’t be. But the man was like freaking catnip. “Good thing . . .” Gah. I lost whatever retort I’d had prepared when his front met my back and he snagged my fork, picking up another bite and lifting it to my mouth.
“Eat,” he murmured.
“I—”
He slid the tines in between my lips, and I swear to God, if the man wasn’t so sexy, if the omelet with all of its works weren’t so freaking delicious, I would have snatched that fork back and put it through his right eyeball.
Very specific? Yes.
Very truthful? No.
Also, if I were being realistic, my retort probably wouldn’t have been a good one anyway.
He scooped up another bite and plunked it into my mouth when I started to form another protest. Not that my protest would have mattered. I was starting to see that this man was very much a force to be reckoned with. I needed to get my shit together and find a way to hold my own, even with all of his yumminess pressed to all of my . . . none-i-ness?
Fuck, Conners, that was bad.
So bad, in fact, that I found myself snorting at my inner monologue, drawing the focus of both Maggie and Talbot. Maggie, I could see, her brown eyes sparkling with interest as they studied me—or rather me and Talbot pressed to my back. Talbot, on the other hand, I couldn’t see, not with him still at my back, but I knew he was looking at me, just knew it.
How? Someone might ask.
Idiocy and instinct, I might reply.
Another snort escaped me, more focus settling my way, but I didn’t acknowledge either of them, just plunked the fork out of Tal’s hand, started eating in earnest, and then used the remainder of my available brainpower to wonder how in the hell I’d gotten here.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have any answer, other than to blame the gun . . . oh, and the knife, too.
Chapter Fifteen
Talbot
I don’t think Tammy realized how bad it was until after we finished eating and Maggie sat us down in the family room and pulled out her laptop.
She brought up screen after screen, too many articles to ever read, blog posts galore, photos and YouTube videos, Instagram stories and tweets. There was even an entire thread on TikTok that had gone viral. The attack had been covered in everything from gossip sheets to all those social media influencers to local news to national papers. It was, in a word, everywhere.
Tammy grew quieter with each page that came up, with the news clips and the comments that followed.
The only good thing was that the paparazzi had caught everythi
ng.
The older man, his face lined and drawn, his eyes huge and sunken. I had to admit he looked frighteningly crazed on the videos, much more so than I’d been able to comprehend the night before with everything moving so fast. They showed the man lunging toward us, the knife held above his head.
They’d caught Tammy’s warning to stop.
They’d caught the first shot and then him getting back up again, where they’d also filmed the rest of it. Tammy firing twice more, kicking the knife away, and then immediately trying to save the man.
All with blood pouring down her arm because he’d cut her with that knife, and in that sexy black dress.
She was fucking amazing.
She was a fucking superhero.
And right now, people seemed to realize it.
But sooner or later, that tide would turn, someone would find something to exploit or frown upon or to rally the forces against her. I needed to make sure that didn’t happen.
I needed Maggie to make sure that didn’t happen.
“Right now,” my publicist was saying, “they haven’t identified you, yet. That’s a good thing. That gives us time to figure out how we want to play this. You’ll want to release a statement soon, though, otherwise the frenzy will continue. We can consult with your lawyer”—Maggie’s gaze came to mine, and I nodded, assuring her that Tammy would have access to any of my resources I could supply her with—“and figure out what we can say—”
“No.”
I blinked, glanced at Tammy, whose skin had gone ashen.
“No, I don’t want a statement,” she whispered. “I want to forget that ever happened. I want to just go back to my life and—” Her voice broke as she closed the laptop. “This isn’t right. I-I hurt someone. He might die, and those people out there”—she threw an arm out in the direction of the front gate—“they don’t even care. They’re feeding on it, consuming it like it’s some funny meme or a hair dyeing video. And a man is fighting for his life in the hospital because I shot him.” A beat, her angry stare almost a physical lash as it landed on me. “And you’re part of it. Both of you.”