Against the Dark by Carolyn Crane

“That attitude won’t do. Because I need to inform you, you’re way more into me than I’m into you.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Sorry, that’s how it evolved in my conversation with Borgola. You want a relationship. I want sex. So when we’re around Borgola, no talk of dartboards, okay? You have to act really into me.”
    She glared at him. “Aren’t covers supposed to be vaguely plausible?”
    He pushed up his shirt. “Girl, you just can’t get your mind off this action, can you?”
    “Stop it.” She turned and grabbed a bag of rice cakes. It was a little bit true, unfortunately. Horribly so—she couldn’t get her mind off the way he’d slid his hand over his abs in her bedroom, pulled out her gun and set it down on the nightstand, then lowered his hand, sliding his fingers over his belly, letting them linger on his snaps—oh, it was insanely sexy. She’d wanted him to keep going, unsnap his pants, pull his shirt right off, to go to her, to say those things about her wanting that action. She loved that smart, cocky confidence.
    “And I missed your birthday chasing down the diamonds, so I’m going to show you an extra special birthday over the next few days. Which, incidentally, he’s given me off in thanks for a job well done. This is good coffee.”
    “It’s half decaf,” she said.
    “Why? Why do people do that?”
    “You want me jumpy and shaky when we get to the secret safe?”
    “Fair enough,” he said. “So we met at a coffee shop maybe three weeks ago. The Savannah on Grand—does that work for you?”
    “Sure,” she said.
    “How did we start talking?”
    “I was dog sitting for my neighbor. Dogs always get people talking.”
    “Good,” he said. “The dog’s name is Norman. An Irish Setter mutt. And we took him to the beach together.”
    “It was a Tuesday,” she said. “Let’s make this our four-week anniversary.”
    He pulled out his phone, flipped through some screens. “That works for my schedule. And then our first date was Italian food. How about Mito’s. You know that place?”
    “Fancy. Looks like you had some high hopes for our first date,” Angel said.
    “And every one of them came true.”
    “You wish.”
    He rose, walked over. Her breath hitched, but he just grabbed the bag of rice cakes from the counter. “Got any real food?”
    “This is real food. If you’d wanted me to make you breakfast, dear, you should’ve called first.”
    “Got any peanut butter?”
    She huffed and pulled some peanut butter out of the refrigerator, then grabbed him a knife and plate.
    “Thank you.” He unscrewed the lid and went to work slathering a thick layer over the rice cake.
    Something perverse and wicked inside her enjoyed him there in her kitchen with his attitude and appetite, a prime specimen of the dangerous, bad boyfriend. But Cole was more than a mere specimen—he exemplified the class. He was the pinnacle peak of self-destructive men, having reached an extreme and nearly perfect level of badness out in the wild.
    And here he was, taking over her kitchen. Taking over her life.
    “You were amazing that first night after Mito’s,” he said. “Even at the restaurant we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”
    “I think you’ve become confused by the kiss at the party. I only kissed you because we needed to know if you thought I was a hooker or if we were being watched as threats. Informational purposes only. I’m usually not like that.”
    “Informational purposes only?” He gave her a smug look. “ That kiss?”
    “Yeah. I’m a prude in real life. So, after our date at Mito’s, I maybe kissed you on the cheek but that’s all. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I’d keep dating you. Actually…” She smiled, lowered her voice, “you seemed like a bit of a dip to me.”
    He frowned. “A dip?”
    “Yes, a dip. I recall giving you a pity peck on the cheek.”
    He barked out a laugh. “No, no, no. I’m sorry, but that’s not how I remember our first date,