two-story rear wall overlooking the harbor, the dim lights of Fed Hill glimmering across the dark expanse. She turned, examining the upper level—an open, airy loft enclosed only by a black double rail running from the ladder leading up to it and the front brick wall.
“Mi casa es su casa.” He punched another code into the interior panel, and the door closed behind them, and then he lowered a metal bar across its width. “Told you you’d be safe here.”
He wasn’t lying. “Nice digs.” She strolled farther in. “Not what I’d expected.”
He glanced at her with that sexy, subtle smile that made her knees go momentarily goofy. “Oh? Do tell.”
She shrugged. “Single player such as yourself. I pictured a swanky condo in the heart of Canton, not a secluded warehouse on the fringes.”
“I like seclusion.”
“You like distraction. Speaking of which, I see no TV.” She spun around, searching the open space. “Please tell me you have a TV.” She needed it to fall asleep.
“Never fear, Tate.” He picked up a remote, aimed it at the console table in front of the sofa, and pressed a button. The top of the console opened, and a flat-screen TV rose up out of it.
“Swanky.”
“I prefer streamlined. I’m not much for TV, other than baseball games.”
“You like baseball?”
“Yep. Was pretty much my whole life growing up.”
“You played?” Not that he wasn’t athletic, but team sports just didn’t seem his style.
“Since I was three.”
“Three?”
“Started with T-ball, then all the way through Little League onto our high school varsity team, and then pick-up games in college.”
“ Our high school team?”
He strolled into the kitchen, separated from the living space only by a long island. “Declan, Griffin, myself, and another friend.”
She sank onto one of the bar stools. “This friend have a name?”
He poured himself a Coke. “Luke . . . Gallagher.” He lifted a can. “Would you care for one?”
“I’m good, thanks, but please tell me somebody delivers pizza in this neighborhood.” If the industrial area could be deemed a neighborhood .
“Yes. There’s a pizza place, but we won’t be ordering in.”
“Oh?”
“You’re a guest in my home, and therefore I’ll be making you a homemade meal.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Believe me,” he said, retrieving ingredients. “It is. We’ve been working together for what . . . three months now, and I’ve yet to see you eat anything that hasn’t come out of a box or bag.”
She shrugged, popping a grape from the bowl on the counter into her mouth. “I’m not the cooking sort.”
“Well, lucky for us . . .” He twirled a tomato. “I am.”
“So you really do cook?”
“I told you I did.”
“Most guys just use that as a pick-up line.” She hopped fromthe stool and moved to the table lined with what appeared to be square containers filled with weeds.
“Herbs,” he said.
She bent, inhaling the various savory and sweet scents, recognizing only one—mint. It brought back one of the few good memories of her childhood. A mint vine growing in the dirt along the back corner of their rusted trailer. How it got there no one knew, but her mom would fill a glass pitcher with water, drop in a couple tea bags and a sprig of mint, and then set it out on their splintered picnic table for the sun to do its magic. To this day, it was the one homemade thing she could make—sun tea, like her mom.
“Tate?” Parker had ceased moving around the kitchen and was instead leaning against the island watching her.
How long had he been staring at her like that?
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“I know that look. Stop profiling me.” He might work as a forensic scientist, but his undergrad had been in criminal justice, and he’d either taken a profiling concentration or the gift just came naturally. Either way she didn’t want him using it on her.
He stepped from the island, moving slowly toward
“Mi casa es su casa.” He punched another code into the interior panel, and the door closed behind them, and then he lowered a metal bar across its width. “Told you you’d be safe here.”
He wasn’t lying. “Nice digs.” She strolled farther in. “Not what I’d expected.”
He glanced at her with that sexy, subtle smile that made her knees go momentarily goofy. “Oh? Do tell.”
She shrugged. “Single player such as yourself. I pictured a swanky condo in the heart of Canton, not a secluded warehouse on the fringes.”
“I like seclusion.”
“You like distraction. Speaking of which, I see no TV.” She spun around, searching the open space. “Please tell me you have a TV.” She needed it to fall asleep.
“Never fear, Tate.” He picked up a remote, aimed it at the console table in front of the sofa, and pressed a button. The top of the console opened, and a flat-screen TV rose up out of it.
“Swanky.”
“I prefer streamlined. I’m not much for TV, other than baseball games.”
“You like baseball?”
“Yep. Was pretty much my whole life growing up.”
“You played?” Not that he wasn’t athletic, but team sports just didn’t seem his style.
“Since I was three.”
“Three?”
“Started with T-ball, then all the way through Little League onto our high school varsity team, and then pick-up games in college.”
“ Our high school team?”
He strolled into the kitchen, separated from the living space only by a long island. “Declan, Griffin, myself, and another friend.”
She sank onto one of the bar stools. “This friend have a name?”
He poured himself a Coke. “Luke . . . Gallagher.” He lifted a can. “Would you care for one?”
“I’m good, thanks, but please tell me somebody delivers pizza in this neighborhood.” If the industrial area could be deemed a neighborhood .
“Yes. There’s a pizza place, but we won’t be ordering in.”
“Oh?”
“You’re a guest in my home, and therefore I’ll be making you a homemade meal.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Believe me,” he said, retrieving ingredients. “It is. We’ve been working together for what . . . three months now, and I’ve yet to see you eat anything that hasn’t come out of a box or bag.”
She shrugged, popping a grape from the bowl on the counter into her mouth. “I’m not the cooking sort.”
“Well, lucky for us . . .” He twirled a tomato. “I am.”
“So you really do cook?”
“I told you I did.”
“Most guys just use that as a pick-up line.” She hopped fromthe stool and moved to the table lined with what appeared to be square containers filled with weeds.
“Herbs,” he said.
She bent, inhaling the various savory and sweet scents, recognizing only one—mint. It brought back one of the few good memories of her childhood. A mint vine growing in the dirt along the back corner of their rusted trailer. How it got there no one knew, but her mom would fill a glass pitcher with water, drop in a couple tea bags and a sprig of mint, and then set it out on their splintered picnic table for the sun to do its magic. To this day, it was the one homemade thing she could make—sun tea, like her mom.
“Tate?” Parker had ceased moving around the kitchen and was instead leaning against the island watching her.
How long had he been staring at her like that?
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“I know that look. Stop profiling me.” He might work as a forensic scientist, but his undergrad had been in criminal justice, and he’d either taken a profiling concentration or the gift just came naturally. Either way she didn’t want him using it on her.
He stepped from the island, moving slowly toward
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