Chapter 3
THREE
CHARLES
I had lied to Detective O’Rourke. Of course I had a type, but hell if I was gonna admit that it was him, sitting right there in front of me like some kind of fantasy made flesh.
I estimated him to be in his late thirties, with gorgeous green eyes that seemed almost luminous—the kind of green that reminded me of deep forest shadows with sunlight filtering through.
His dark hair was perfectly messy, like he’d run his fingers through it, and I had the sudden urge to do the same.
The short, neatly trimmed beard framed his mouth in a way that made me wonder what it would feel like against my skin. The man was, as romance novels would say, ruggedly handsome—all sharp jawline and strong cheekbones with just enough roughness around the edges to make him interesting.
And I hadn’t even mentioned his body yet.
Sweet lord, his body. The tight, black T-shirt he wore—I thought detectives always wore suits or was that a TV cliché?
—clung to every defined muscle like it had been painted on.
His chest was broad and solid-looking, the kind you could rest your head on, and his abs were clearly outlined beneath the fabric.
Those biceps were absolutely chef’s kiss—the kind that spoke of real strength.
Everything about him screamed competent, capable, and utterly, devastatingly masculine.
But hell no, I wasn’t about to tell him that. I’d already humiliated myself enough, thank you very much.
“You’re single?”
Now, why on god’s green Earth had that been the first question out of my mouth? What the hell was wrong with me?
His mouth pulled up in a slow grin that should have been illegal in all fifty states, showing off two perfect dimples that carved themselves into his cheeks like little crescents of temptation.
Because, of course, the man had dimples.
Of course the ridiculously attractive detective who was about to pretend to be my boyfriend had the kind of smile that could probably make nuns reconsider their vows.
“I thought we had already concluded it didn’t matter since this isn’t a hookup. Or did you change your mind?”
Change my mind? Was he implying that…? “I wasn’t propositioning you, if that’s what you’re asking. Nor vetting you as a potential…lover,” I said stiffly.
I needed to stop talking before I made an even bigger fool of myself.
“Duly noted,” Detective O’Rourke said. “But for the record: yes, I am single.”
Okay then. “So how is this gonna work? Don’t you need to talk to your boss or something?”
“My boss?” He looked as if I’d suggested he fly to the moon.
“Your chief of police or whatever he’s called?”
Understanding dawned in those green eyes, accompanied by a brief flash of something—embarrassment? Alarm?—before his cop mask slid back into place. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll do that right now and discuss the…arrangements with you. With him, I mean.”
Before I could respond, he’d left the room.
He was a bit…odd. Not in an alarming way, but quirky in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
I’d almost say clumsy, but that was more physical, and that wasn’t it at all.
He moved with the easy grace of a predator, like a lion or a bobcat stalking through tall grass, though he didn’t give off predator vibes otherwise.
Not that I thought he was harmless. He was anything but that—far too sharp and observant, with eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
The thought of him posing as my boyfriend was as exhilarating as it was intimidating and somewhat scary. How was I ever going to pull that off without making a complete fool of myself?
Not the pretending-to-be-attracted-to-him part.
That would be the easiest thing to convince people of, since I wouldn’t have to act.
But everything else? That scared me. If he was gay—and I was definitely getting that vibe from the way his eyes had lingered on my mouth when I’d been talking—how would I ever make sure it stayed pretend?
How would I make sure I didn’t accidentally cross a line and, I don’t know, climb him like a tree?
The door opened again, and Detective O’Rourke walked back in. “Good news. The chief is on board.”
“That easily?” I had expected that to take much longer. Wasn’t the NYPD known for being slow and bureaucratic?
“Yes. The chief agreed there was both a considerable risk to your safety and an excellent opportunity to try and catch Carlo red-handed. If we can gather evidence of attempted murder, we may have enough to convict him and send him to jail.”
Hmm, that sounded very reasonable. “Okay. So what’s the next step?”
“The next step is that I now stay glued to your side, so lead the way.”
I frowned. “Don’t you need clothes?”
He blinked slowly, like he was processing information that didn’t quite compute, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion before he quickly schooled his expression back to neutral. “Of course. They’ll be delivered tomorrow to your address.”
“Delivered? By whom?”
“By…by my assistant?”
He said it as a question, as if he were asking me. “Detectives have assistants?”
A brief hesitation, and then, “No, no. Of course not. I have one. Myself, I mean. I’m…independently wealthy?”
Another statement that sounded like a question. “You’re rich yet still working as a detective?”
“I really love my job. It brings me a deep satisfaction that transcends any money or riches.”
Okay, that had sounded sincere. “That’s very admirable of you.”
“Thank you.” He looked pleased with himself as if he’d passed some kind of test. “So, can we go now?”
He sounded eager, which was a bit surprising, to be honest. Surely an NYPD detective could think of more fun things to do than babysit a witness?
“Sure,” I said, maybe sounding a little less convincing than he’d expected because he narrowed his eyes.
“You don’t want me to come with you now?”
“I do,” I said quickly. “Of course I do. And I’m grateful that the NYPD is taking this so seriously. But it’s still a lot, you know? To process?”
The tension on his face dissipated. “I can understand that. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable with me being there.”
Of course I was uncomfortable with him being there—in my home, in my space, in my suddenly very complicated life. The man was absolutely gorgeous, all lean muscle and devastating smiles, while I was…well, me. A hot mess on a good day, and today definitely wasn’t a good day.
He’d see my little house with its mismatched furniture and the pile of romance novels by my bed.
He’d find out how boring my life was, how utterly devoid of anything exciting.
He’d notice how chaotic I could be, and that I talked to my sourdough starter like it was a pet.
He’d figure out pretty quickly that I was a small-town baker who was way out of his league, and then what?
And then nothing, I reminded myself firmly.
And then absolutely nothing because he wasn’t there to form opinions about my life or my living situation.
He wasn’t there to judge my decorating skills or my eating habits.
It didn’t even matter what he thought of me.
We were not together for real—duh. He was my pretend boyfriend, emphasis on pretend, and I’d better keep that really, really clear in my head.
“Absolutely. Comfortable, I mean, with you there as my pretend boyfriend, Detective O’Rourke.”
God, I sounded like a moron. Detective O’Rourke flashed me a grin, however, so maybe he didn’t feel the same way. “Eamon.”
“Excuse me?”
“Eamon. That’s my name. I don’t think this will work if you keep calling me Detective O’Rourke.”
“Eamon.” I swallowed. “Of course.”
He cocked his head. “We good?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Yes, we are. Completely good.” Oh god, I needed to keep my mouth shut before I made an even bigger fool of myself.
“Good. How did you get here? Did you drive?”
I stared at him. Had he really asked that?
I wasn’t imagining things? The question was so fundamentally ridiculous that, for a moment, I couldn’t even process it.
How long had this man been a detective in New York City without understanding the most basic principle of urban survival: you did not voluntarily drive into Manhattan unless you hated yourself and-or had money to burn? “How long have you been with the NYPD?”
“Why?”
“Because the notion that anyone would voluntarily drive from Charming to the city is, quite frankly, preposterous.”
He blinked. “It is?”
Okay, what was going on with this guy? He was either brand new to the city—like, arrived-yesterday new—oblivious as fuck, or way too slow in the head to be a detective.
“Aside from the fact that it would take me three times as long as the Metro-North—and that’s on a good day without accidents or construction—the tolls are absolutely absurd.
The GW Bridge alone is, like, fifteen bucks now, and that’s one way.
Then you’ve got parking, which is what, fifty dollars minimum for anything decent?
And don’t even get me started on the stress of navigating Manhattan traffic, where everyone drives like they have a death wish.
I’d rather take the train, read a book, and arrive with my sanity intact, thank you very much. ”
A wince flashed over his face so quickly that I wondered if I had imagined it. “Yet half the cars here aren’t cabs, so clearly some people are still driving,” he then countered.
“And how many of those are either rideshare drivers or private hires?”
He shrugged. “Still leaves people who don’t mind driving here, apparently.”
“Well, I’m not one of them, so no, I didn’t drive. I drove down to Poughkeepsie and took the Metro-North.”
His face lit up. “So you did drive.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, to Poughkeepsie. Not to the city.”
“Semantics.”
Yes, but important ones in this case. I sighed. “It doesn’t really matter. Why did you ask?”
“Because I’d like to drive and needed to know if you had a car or not.”
“You’ll take a squad car then?” Wasn’t that what those were called?
He shook his head. “I’ll be undercover, remember?”
Oh right. Duh.
“We’ll take my car.”
“Okay.”
“Follow me,” he said, and I did just that.
We left the interrogation room and made our way through the precinct, past desks cluttered with case files and cops who barely glanced up from their paperwork.
Eamon nodded to a few officers as we passed, and I kept my eyes focused on his back like a light tower on a dark and stormy sea.
The elevator ride down to the parking garage was awkwardly quiet, filled only with the mechanical hum and my growing nervousness about what came next.
The garage was dimly lit and smelled like exhaust and concrete, filled with the mix of squad cars and personal vehicles I’d expected. What I hadn’t expected was for Eamon to stop next to a sleek black BMW that looked like it cost more than I’d made in the last ten years. “That’s your car?”
He beamed. “Isn’t she pretty?”
She was, but how did a detective afford a car like that? Oh right. Independently wealthy. But it didn’t exactly blend in. “You use that for work?”
He blinked. “No, no, I have a…a very boring Subaru for that.”
Two cars? Damn, I could barely afford the payments on one car—and mine was a ten-year-old Toyota. I also had the van, of course, but that was for business only.
He opened the passenger door for me like a gentleman, and I gave him an approving nod as I slid onto the leather seats. He was already taking on the role of my boyfriend.
The interior was all black leather and polished wood trim, with a dashboard that looked like it belonged in a spaceship rather than a car.
Everything gleamed—the chrome accents, the pristine center console, even the floor mats looked like they’d never seen a speck of dirt.
It smelled expensive too, that mixture of leather conditioner and whatever they used to make luxury cars smell like money.
When Eamon’s phone connected to the car, he set the navigation for my address…which I hadn’t given him. “How’d you find my address?”
He shot me a quick look sideways as he started the car, the engine purring like a big feline. “That was an easy search, knowing you’re a wedding baker in Charming.”
Right. That made sense, though I would’ve expected that to provide the address for Sweet Relief. But I suppose my home address would be easy enough to find after that. He was a cop, after all.
As soon as we left the parking garage of the precinct, we got stuck in heavy traffic.
I checked my watch. Five on the dot. Well, that was perfect timing, wasn’t it?
We’d get to experience the full force of rush hour in the city.
I leaned back in my seat, and a huge yawn made my jaw pop.
God, I was exhausted. I’d been up since three, and I was about to crash hard.
“You can put your seat back with the buttons on the right,” Eamon said.
“Sorry.” As if on cue, I yawned again. “It’s been a long day.”
“Don’t apologize. You’ve been through a lot. Just make yourself comfortable and take a nap.”
My eyes grew heavy. “Are you sure?”
He chuckled. “Absolutely.”
A wave of fatigue rolled over me, and I did as he had suggested and adjusted my seat until I was truly comfortable.
“Sleep, Charles,” Eamon said softly.
Warmth flooded me, and with a last exhale, I fell asleep.