7. Miles #2
Rowan nodded. "We need to slow down." He scanned my face. "You're not ready for this. Michael's call rattled you. If we push forward now, we'll make mistakes that get us killed."
Relief flooded my chest, chased by disappointment. The investigation had given us purpose—a reason to sit with each other and share secrets in the dark. Without it, where were we?
"So what do you suggest?" I moved closer to the evidence wall, studying the faces that stared back at me. Iris's photo had been moved to the center, surrounded by the others like they were orbiting a sun.
"Research. Background checks. Following the money trail." Rowan joined me at the wall, his shoulder brushing mine. "Building a case that doesn't require us to walk into a trap."
His long, slim fingers traced connections between photographs and documents.
"The financial records show payments to something called Enhanced Therapy Solutions," he continued, pointing to a series of bank transfers. "It's a shell company registered in Delaware, but the money flows through accounts in the Cayman Islands before—"
I wasn't listening anymore.
Instead, I focused on his hands. Next was the slight tension in his shoulders when he leaned forward to point out a detail. His voice dropped into that measured cadence I knew from hundreds of podcast episodes.
"Miles?"
I snapped back to attention, realizing Rowan had stopped talking and was looking at me with raised eyebrows.
"Sorry. You were saying something about the Cayman Islands?"
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'd moved on to talking about a facility in Phoenix that might be connected to the network. You're distracted."
Goosebumps appeared on my forearms. How long had I been staring at his hands instead of listening? "Long morning. Michael's call threw me off more than I expected."
"Your brother's protective."
"Aggressively so. All of them are." I turned back to the evidence wall, needing something to focus on besides how Rowan's Henley clung to his chest. "Sometimes it feels like I'm still twelve years old and they're trying to shield me from the worst parts of the world."
"But they aren't there every time you meet a client. You see so many bad parts of the world."
"You're right, and that's what's driving me here. I want to understand what happened to Iris. I want to know why she died. And I want..."
I stopped myself before I could finish the sentence. Before I could say that I wanted to keep working with Rowan and sit in his warehouse fortress while he navigated the evidence walls with those steady hands.
"What do you want, Miles?"
Rowan had moved closer, close enough to catch the fresh, unscented, no bullshit smell of him.
"I want to find the truth," I said, but we both knew that wasn't the complete answer anymore.
Rowan moved along the wall. "The coordination suggests they're not only targeting individual victims," he said, reaching up to adjust a photograph.
The movement pulled his shirt tight across his back, defining the lean strength beneath.
"They're mapping entire therapeutic networks, identifying the most successful cases for—"
He turned suddenly, catching me mid-stare.
We both froze. The warehouse electronics hummed around us.
"Miles?"
The pretense of professional collaboration evaporated. We weren't investigating partners anymore. We were two men standing too close in a converted warehouse, the air thick with unspoken attraction.
"I—" I started, then stopped. No joke came to mind. No deflection or clever quip to break the tension.
"This isn't about the investigation anymore," Rowan said.
"No."
Neither of us moved or looked away. The evidence wall loomed behind Rowan—nine faces staring down at us, including Iris with her intelligent eyes.
"I think we need to talk about what's happening here, Miles."
The rational part of my brain agreed. We needed to discuss professional boundaries, ethical considerations, and the complications of mixing investigations and attraction. We needed to step back, create distance, and acknowledge the electricity that crackled whenever we were in the same room.
My body wouldn't have it. "I'm going to kiss you," I said, the words coming out steadier than I felt.
Rowan's eyes searched mine. For a heartbeat, I thought he might retreat behind professional boundaries.
Instead, he leaned forward just enough to close half the distance between us.
Permission.
I bridged the remaining space, my hands resting on the solid warmth of his shoulders. The kiss started carefully, testing—lips brushing lips. I tasted the lingering sweetness of whatever he'd been stress-baking that morning—cardamom and brown sugar.
One of his hands cupped my jaw, and the fingers of the other hand threaded into the hair at the back of my head. The kiss deepened.
I let it.
My hands moved from his shoulders to his back, feeling the lean strength beneath his Henley and how his muscles shifted as he pressed closer. He kissed like he did everything else—with complete focus.
When we finally broke apart, I expected the familiar rush of awkwardness, the instinct to crack a joke and restore safe distance. Instead, I stared into Rowan's eyes, watching his pupils dilate.
His thumb brushed across my bottom lip, and my breath caught audibly.
"We should probably talk about this." It was so much more than that. One kiss, and I was ready to throw everything away for a man whose investigation could destroy us both. My license, my practice, my family's trust—all balanced on the edge of wanting him more than my own safety.
"Later," Rowan said, his voice dropping to that low register I knew from late-night podcast episodes. "Right now, I want to kiss you again."
The honesty of it—naked desire—wrecked my armor. Rowan was a man who wanted what I wanted.
"Yeah," I breathed, "later."
The second kiss was different—hungrier and less careful. Rowan gripped my waist, fingers pressing against my hipbone, anchoring me against him. His heart beat against my chest, fast and strong.
I was falling for a man as haunted as I was. The investigation had brought us together, but this—his hands in my hair and his breath against my lips—was something entirely different.
It terrified me that he could read me so easily. What happened when he looked past the humor and found someone who'd been pretending to have his shit together since he was twelve?