Out of Time (Fall of the Morelli Crime Family #3)

3. Chapter 3

three

Mark

I had to be missing something. The woman standing in front of me was worlds apart from the Bee I met six weeks ago.

My Bee was sweet, kind, and maybe a little shy. She was humble, committed, and talked about wanting to settle down and start a family. Hell, she chose the property for her little shop—something about fixing up watches—because it had a loft upstairs so she could work and keep any future kids close during naptime.

I remembered everything she said to me that night.

This angry, stuck-up woman wasn’t my Bee. She looked like her apart from the glare, but she sure as hell wasn’t acting like her. I couldn’t even begin to figure out why she was acting so differently.

I would have sworn she was in it as deep as I was, was just as smitten as me. Was I completely wrong?

Was it something I did that night?

Dear god, what if Lucas was right and I was the worst lover in the universe? I thought we had a beautiful, passionate night, but maybe Bee was faking the whole time. Was I that bad in the sack?

The paranoia and panic hit fast as a thousand thoughts raced through my head in a millisecond.

Was I the shittiest lay she ever had, and that’s why she left without saying anything in the morning and didn’t try to get a hold of me and was avoiding me like the plague until I literally ran into her in the street and she was pissed that on top of being unable to satisfy her needs sexually, now I practically physically assaulted her?

What if that was why she didn’t look happy to see me when all I wanted for the last six weeks was to see her?

Did she even remember this was the bar where we met? Maybe I was lucky that she even remembered my name, if I was that disappointing to her.

I tried to rein in my runaway thoughts.

“Hey, I’m sorry for bumping you. I was just eager to get going—” to find you “—after a beer with someone and I wasn’t paying attention.”

“With your coworker?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “That childhood friend?”

She was still frowning at me, but she remembered what I told her about working with Lucas after all these years. Maybe I was overreacting again. I could pull it together, get through to her. This was a front. I didn’t know what Bee was trying to hide from me or why she didn’t trust me with whatever it was, but I could earn her trust back.

“Yeah, Lucas. He works with the FBI, but he’s been liaising with my department on a task force for the last couple months. Did I tell you I work with the SFPD?” I really didn’t remember whether we’d gone into that much detail or not, but she wasn’t running away. She was still talking to me, so that had to mean something.

“You didn’t. But I figured that out.” Right. I was holding my jacket so my badge was on display on my belt holster. Duh.

“I work in homicide as an inspector.” I preened a little, stood up a little straighter. I’d worked hard to get where I was.

“Inspector?”

“Detective,” I clarified. “I solve cases and help the families of victims gain some peace. San Francisco is just weird, so my official title is ‘Inspector’ even if no one actually calls me that.” Was that too much information? I felt like I was rambling and started to sweat. I hoped she didn’t notice how nervous I was. “Hey, do you fix new things like my apple watch or just antiques? I can’t seem to get the settings right.”

See, I listened when you spoke, too. I would earn her trust back.

“I work with newer items, sometimes even with technology from this century, but not smart watches. Sorry.” So much for that. “You remembered what I do?”

I was totally making some progress.

“Of course. You got your degree in art history, which led you to classical sculpture, then antique items, and timepieces from there. And since you almost majored in engineering before the art bug hit you, it was easy to make a logical compromise by tinkering with and fixing those beautiful watches and clocks.” Okay, I sounded like a stalker for memorizing everything. Maybe I was doing the opposite of earning her trust.

“I can’t believe you remember all that,” she said, looking a little stunned. I couldn’t tell if it was an impressed kind of stunned or an I’m-going-to-call-the-police-for-my-own-protection kind of stunned.

She wasn’t glancing around like she wanted a witness, so I moved on before she realized how creepy I was acting.

“You know, I’m starting to feel that pre-summer heat. I could go for something to cool down. You want to grab some fro-yo with me?” I was a fucking idiot. Who went for fro-yo anymore?! “Or some gelato, actually. There’s a place right down the street.” I passed by it every single day, so I would know.

“No, I need to head home. I have to work on my inventory and get my books caught up for my quarterly meeting with my bookkeeper.”

“Did you walk? I’d really like to give you a ride, Bee.” Not just a ride on my disco stick, but in my actual car. That came across, right? I didn’t want to skeeve her out even more.

“No, I have my own car.” Damn. “But thank you anyway.”

I had to be getting somewhere with her. She didn’t need to be polite.

“What if I kept you company while you worked on your inventory? I’d really just like to talk to you again. What was the name of your shop again?”

“Mark…” She sighed, but I could see the compassion in her eyes. She felt something for me, right? “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

But apparently not enough to give me another chance, just enough to feel sorry for me.

“Why not?” I was practically begging by this point. It would be just my luck that I’d meet the perfect woman, but I somehow ruined it before we could really even give it a go.

She just sighed, and the sadness in her eyes would turn a less desperate man away with his dignity intact. I wouldn’t give up either, but I could try a different path.

“What if I didn’t take you on a date? We could just hang out. No expectations, no strings, just two friends who got along well enough once, and want to see if we can get along again. What do you say?” I forced a smile on my lips and reached out for her hand. Her fingers met mine and her expression softened. A light pink warmed her cheeks, and I felt like I had it in the bag. I could still be charming. I had this.

“Trust me when I tell you, Mark: it’s not you, it’s me.” She was still blushing, her words gentle even as she avoided my eyes. That meant it was definitely me. Her gaze swept up and down my form, pausing on my lower half before continuing elsewhere. My stomach sank.

Fucking hell, it really was the worst sex in the history of mankind, wasn’t it? She couldn’t even stand to look at me, couldn’t imagine hanging out again, even as friends, because my dick didn’t do the job he’d been training for since I learned the beauty of masturbation in the eighth grade.

Fuck you, Dick. I used to call him “Henry Cavill” because I assumed the ladies went crazy over him; guess I was assuming too much. If it wouldn’t hurt me—and just be outright ludicrous—I’d punch Henry right in his one-eyed face for his lackluster performance. But I wasn’t an idiot, even if apparently I knew nothing about sex. Could I research how to be good in bed without just cruising porn sites? I thought it’d been a perfect night, but that just went to show me what I knew: nothing.

Wait.

She did it again, but I was pretty sure she was looking at my badge, not my junk. Was the badge an issue for her?

“Do you have a problem with cops?” I did my best not to sound accusatory. I didn’t want to piss her off if it was just a misunderstanding. I tilted my head to the side and gave her a soft smile of encouragement. She could trust me. She could tell me the truth.

“Not me. I think most cops do a good enough job.” Yet she still fidgeted anxiously, tucking back a strand of hair that escaped the delicate yellow flower pin at the top of her head.

“But?” I continued for her.

“But I think spending time together may be a conflict of interest.” She was trying to look nonchalant but failing. Her shoulders were tense enough I almost offered a neck rub. Her eyes were anxious, her hands balled into fists.

“What sort of conflict, honey?”

She fisted her fingers so tightly that her knuckles turned pale white. Okay, I was getting worried. Something very wrong was going on here. Was she in some sort of trouble?

“I never told you my full name.”

Full name as in her last name? Maybe she had a famous parent. Was her dad a crazy rockstar who had been in trouble with the law? That was fine. We could get over that easily enough.

“Bianca.”

That made sense. Bee had to be short for something, though it was unique enough to be something a weirdo celebrity would name their kid.

“Rose.”

Cute. Feminine and sweet, like her. Bianca Rose. That sounded familiar. She was totally the offspring of someone famous. This wouldn’t be a big deal.

“Morelli.”

God fucking dammit.

“Does that name mean anything to you?” The hope in her voice stabbed into my heart. She wanted me to tell her it didn’t make a difference.

But how could it not when I was actively trying to put her father in prison? That was why her name was familiar; I probably read it somewhere in the massive amount of paperwork I’d seen in the last couple of months on the case. She was Carlo Morelli’s daughter?

Even erectile dysfunction would have been better than that.