Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I MADE MY way into the breakroom, rubbing my temples at the beginnings of a headache pounding through my skull.
While being out until the wee hours of the morning wouldn’t normally affect me as much as it would anyone with a normal sleep schedule, that was assuming I’d have the chance to sleep the morning away.
Which I didn’t. Being employed wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, okay?
Especially considering my job was the reason I was out so late in the first place.
And the worst part? Absolutely nothing noteworthy happened during my surveillance shift.
Nada. Zilch. Just hours of mind-numbing nothing.
Add in starting the day with the resident goose outside my apartment complex literally chasing me to my car, oversleeping so I had to skip breakfast, and being pulled into an hour-long interrogation; I needed coffee. Desperately.
I nearly bumped into the person in front of the coffee maker, mumbling an apology until I realized who it was.
Because, of course, it was him. The poster child for pocket protectors and daily planners.
The patron saint of calculators and tax forms. The bane of my existence.
Even if I hadn’t spent countless hours glaring at the back of this particular freckled neck—which I had—the broad shoulders, neatly combed hair, and lean figure were unmistakable.
“Bulldozing everything within reach again, newbie?” Colt asked, not even bothering to turn and face me.
My scowl deepened. “I’ve been here for two months now, Colt. I think it’s time you finally admit you’re not creative enough to come up with another derogatory nickname for me.”
“Oh, coming up with them isn’t the problem,” he muttered, finally turning as if he had all the time in the world—and still blocking the coffeemaker, “HR is.”
“Right, I almost forgot you’re allergic to the possibility of bending the rules.” Heaven forbid he ever got reprimanded. His cold, dead heart would probably give out then and there.
His eyes narrowed, and his knuckles whitened almost imperceptibly around the handle of his mug of apple juice. The only indication of his irritation since his voice remained cool. “Is that what you call what you do— bending ?”
I sighed, trying to think around the worsening pounding in my brain. “Are you going to wax poetic about the importance of the handbook again? Because I’ll spare you the time and energy. I. Don’t. Care.”
Perhaps that was a little harsh, but I really didn’t care.
I knew the rules well enough, but I wasn’t about to have them tattooed to my forehead like he apparently wanted me to.
And if I had to sit through another twenty-minute rant about how I’d done this wrong or that out of order, I was going to splash his apple juice in his face.
I’d aim for his shirt, but with how much starch was undoubtedly in it, the juice would probably just roll right off.
Maybe congeal into apple juice gravy and jiggle menacingly.
“That’s evident enough,” he scoffed. “Tell me, did you at least have the courtesy to warn Max before you went completely off the rails in this interrogation, or did you blindside him like you did me?”
I clenched my fists, my composure dangerously close to slipping. “ That’s what you’re so mad about? That was ages ago.”
“Six weeks and two days is hardly ‘ages.’”
My composure slipped a touch more, and I couldn’t resist any longer. I rolled my eyes. “Of course you have it memorized to the day. What makes you think I went ‘off the rails’ this time, anyway? I haven’t done anything illegal, including during our interrogation.”
“I was clearly following a specific line of questioning?—”
“Which wasn’t working .” I pulled on my unruly curls, forcing myself to take a deep breath.
It had been over a month since McBride had called us both in to interrogate the lower-level dealer in Le Chimiste ’s network. Over a month since I’d managed to get the guy to give us Le Chimiste ’s real name. And Colt was still bitter I’d interrupted him? Puh-lease.
McBride had called the newbie in for a reason.
The dealer had a thing for brunettes, and mommy issues to boot.
While I resented the fact that my appearance played any part in getting the guy to spill, I wasn’t dumb, and I wasn’t above using it to my advantage.
No matter which way Colt tried to direct the interrogation, the guy would’ve seen him as the enemy.
Sure, it was spontaneous, but switching tactics out of the blue threw Colt off enough to get him to be quiet, and it painted me as an ally in the dealer’s mind.
It wasn’t anything personal. For all the flak Colt and I gave each other, we both sidelined our feud when it mattered. We were professionals.
Or so I thought.
“Now, would you move?” I demanded, my voice pitching dangerously close to aggressive . “You’re blocking my coffee.”
I hated that he could get under my skin so easily. I hated his nitpicking fixation on the rules, his condescending, know-it-all attitude. If he ever took the high road—and he never did—it would only be so he could look down at everyone else from his perch.
His eyes sparked like a live wire, his polite smile hiding the sarcasm in his reply to anyone who didn’t know him like I did. “Ah, there’s the characteristic Lex charm we’ve all come to know and love.”
“My charm is reserved for people with a heart, and we both know there’s only a gold-embossed rulebook where yours should be.
Now please, just—” I edged around him in an attempt to reach my liquid salvation.
When he leaned oh-so-casually against the counter to block my attempt, I nearly growled.
“Don’t you have some papers to alphabetize or something? ”
He rolled his eyes, which would normally be a victory for me if I wasn’t in such a sour mood. Cool, controlled Colt never rolled his eyes. Or at least not without sufficient provocation from yours truly. “You tell me. Do I?”
“Not yet, but you will if you don’t scoot your pressed and ironed butt out of my way.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you paid so much attention to my butt.”
My cheeks flushed and my eyes flicked to the area in question against my will.
An area which I’d never looked at, even when he wore his incredibly well-tailored gray pants.
Never. Not even once. Nope. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing but a black hole there.
“I don’t ! Ew, why would you even—it’s just a saying. ”
The corner of his mouth edged up in a cocky smirk, and he leaned close enough to whisper, “Then why are you blushing?”
“Because you infuriate me, and extra blood flow is indicative of a fight-or-flight response.”
“Fight-or-flight, hmm? Because you’re embarrassed I called you out?”
I recoiled a step, not missing the triumphant gleam in his eyes from my apparent retreat. “No, because being within ten feet of you makes me want to punch something.”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Lex.” He took a deliberate sip of his juice, eyes locked on mine in a familiar battle of wills.
I crossed my arms and stepped forward to reclaim the lost ground. If this was some sort of juvenile game to him, then it was one I was going to win. “Move, Peewee. Before I move you.”
“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. This is, what, your third cup of coffee and it isn’t even” —he glanced at his watch— “ten-thirty. And you’re already going through withdrawals.”
“What are you, the coffee police?” Besides, the first cup I’d had this morning had barely even touched the exhaustion weighing down my body.
And the second one had been sacrificed when I had to abandon it for the interrogation room.
“The only thing I’m ‘going through’ is my mental list of reasons why I don’t want to go to jail so I keep from strangling you. ”
He tapped my temple with a finger, which he would’ve lost if I hadn’t been so surprised he’d dare risk contaminating himself to touch me. “Nope. Withdrawals. The vein right here is throbbing, and you’re fidgeting more than usual. That happens every time you’re craving a caffeine fix.”
I blinked slowly, dumbfounded. I wasn’t fidgeting, right? Then again, I didn’t think I normally fidgeted at all.
I shook away the shock, replacing it with indignation as I swatted the air in front of me, as if that could retroactively swat his hand away. “It’s throbbing because I have to deal with you every day.”
Before he could reply, McBride’s voice barked from behind me. “Piper. Dixon. My office.”
Colt and I shot ramrod straight, and I took a few guilty steps away from him for good measure. Not that we’d done anything wrong, necessarily, but I hated the idea that McBride might think I was wasting my time. Or—worse—that he’d overheard any of our bickering.
When it came to everything and everyone else, I was as down-to-business as they came. Unfazeable. I put my head down and worked my butt off. But whenever Colt came into the picture, my unflappable brick wall looked more and more like that one little piggy’s house that was made out of straw.
One little condescending huff and it all fell down.
And I hated it.
I ignored Colt’s side eye as we followed McBride like the chastised little ducklings we were.
If Colt thought this was my fault, he’d have another think coming.
Preferably in the form of a well-placed kick to the shin in the parking lot after work.
Maybe under our desks if my legs could stretch far enough.
Which, to be clear, they couldn’t. I’ve tried.