Dear Detective (Naughty Notes)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

POPPY

My own place is a six-hundred-square-foot shoebox a few floors down, which I’m lucky to have.

I spend most of my time cleaning other people’s apartments, and I’ve seen enough embarrassing things in people’s medicine cabinets to fill a memoir.

I keep reminding myself that I’m just biding my time until I can afford to finish college and get a job that pays enough to buy my own spa candles.

I groan, catching my own reflection in a streak-free glass door. I look like someone who’s been dragged through the business end of a vacuum cleaner—hair coming loose from my bun, blue cleaning smock buttoned crooked over my ancient Def Leppard tee.

By noon, I’m running on fumes. The third apartment on my list is home to a homicide detective and his adorable black French bulldog who hates me. Not dislikes, hates.

The detective is never here when I clean, and I’m dying to meet him in person. I’ve only ever seen his handwriting. Even though he has my number, he chooses to leave little notes on the counter, usually next to a box of fancy dog treats.

Poppy,

Thanks for taking care of the living room mess last time. Pepper’s been in a mood since yesterday. Ignore her. She’s all bark.

Jack

His handwriting is all sharp angles and heavy pressure, like someone who presses too hard when they write. The blue ink bleeds slightly into the cream-colored sticky note.

Another time, he left a note next to a mug with the outline of a dead body chalked in white against glossy black ceramic. The sticky note was forest green this time, the same decisive handwriting slashing across it.

Poppy,

Sorry the den looks like a crime scene. I’ll send an extra tip to cover the additional work.

Jack

The notes always make me laugh. It seems like the detective tries so hard to sound serious, but I can tell he’s messing with me.

I’m not going to lie, I have a little bit of a crush on the detective whom I’ve never met.

My overactive imagination has conjured up a whole tall, dark, and handsome fantasy man.

I’m really scared to meet him and find out he doesn’t come anywhere close to my dreams.

I let myself into the apartment and find Pepper stretched out on the brown leather sofa, chewing on something that looks suspiciously like an expensive shoe.

I freeze in the doorway, one hand clutching my cleaning tote like a shield. Pepper doesn’t even bother to look guilty. She just gives me a side-eye and keeps gnawing, little gremlin teeth working overtime. “I won’t be disturbing your cartoons very long, Pepper.” Yes, I’m talking to the dog.

She literally rolls her eyes at me as I get to work.

The apartment itself is a typical bachelor pad.

Floor-to-ceiling windows that make you feel like you’re floating in the clouds.

There’s a giant TV mounted on the wall, playing cartoons for the spoiled pup.

Everything is dark wood, matte black, and steel.

Every time I step into the kitchen, I’m amazed at how the other half live.

There’s a wine cooler built right into the cabinetry, stacked with bottles that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

Next to it, a whole separate fridge just for sodas and energy drinks.

Who even has a soda cooler? Apparently, homicide detectives who like their La Croix cold and their merlot colder.

The appliances are all matte black and steel, not a single fingerprint in sight. I drop my cleaning tote on the marble countertop and get to work.

Most of the job is muscle memory by now: beds, counters, floors, bathrooms, all in a set order.

I used to be slow, stopping to marvel at the massive walk-in closets or fancy marble showers.

Now it’s all about efficiency. I can do a three-bedroom in ninety minutes flat, provided nobody has thrown a party.

Still, you pick up on things. The detective works long hours and spends his free time catering to his spoiled Frenchie. If reincarnation is real, I’m coming back as a dog in this building.

Especially a dog like Pepper. There’s literally a whole room just for Pepper that’s bigger than my entire apartment.

It has a velvet bed. And not a dog bed. An actual, people-sized bed, upholstered in bright pink velvet and sitting low to the ground, like it was designed for a four-legged diva. The comforter is velvet, too.

There’s a closet, too. Not kidding. It’s more organized than mine: rows and rows of tiny clothes on hangers, color-coded by season. Collars, harnesses, and a whole bin just for toys. I spot a yellow raincoat, a freaking Halloween princess costume, and about a hundred squeaky things.

This dog is living my dream.

I scrub out the kitchen sink and try to ignore the way Pepper’s glaring at me. “Almost done,” I mutter to my little canine supervisor. Of course, the little furball doesn’t look impressed at all.

Honestly, seeing Pepper’s cushy life makes me curious about her mysterious owner. All I know is he has a spoiled rotten dog and an apartment that always smells like dark roast and… something spicy, and his fancy shoes are really big.

I’ve been cleaning his place for months, but not once have I run into him.

All my interactions with him are done by text.

His messages are always direct and to the point.

He gives me specific instructions and Venmos me immediately after I clean his apartment.

I’m not complaining. If anything, it’s the most professional arrangement I’ve ever had.

While I power through the rest of my checklist with the single-minded focus of a caffeine addict on her last legs, I listen to my business law notes.

Next, I hit the bathroom. The big one with the waterfall shower and a fancy toilet that washes your rear end.

There’s a fancy lever handle on the door instead of a knob, which always throws me off, by the way.

It’s one of those thick, real-wood doors, not the cheap hollow kind, with a fancy frosted glass window in the middle that blurs everything into vague, wobbly shapes.

I slide inside, making sure to shut the door firmly behind me.

Not because I care about privacy. I just don’t need a certain black-furred gremlin leaving paw prints all over my freshly mopped floors.

I sweep the tiles first, dump the dust into the trash, and prop the broom outside in the hallway so I can mop my way out of the bathroom.

I’ve barely started mopping when I hear a snuffling, scrabbling sound followed by a weird thunk. I glance at the door and see a black shape shoot past the door. Pepper, that little demon, loves to play with my cleaning tools.

I mop my way back to the door and rattle the knob.

Are you fucking kidding me? I rattle the handle harder, like maybe I’m the Hulk and brute strength is going to fix my life. Nope. The fancy lever stays locked, and I can see a black and red handle through the frosted glass. Oh my God. That freaking demon dog pushed the mop under the handle.

That’s the last freaking time I bring doggie treats with me.

I jiggle the handle again. Nothing.

Unbelievable.

Through the blurry glass, I see that little gremlin’s shadow stretched out on the master bed. Damnit.

I jam my hand into my pocket for my phone, fingers meeting nothing but lint and a crumpled receipt.

My stomach drops as I remember leaving it on the bedside table—a precaution after my last three phones took swan dives into toilets.

The most recent victim, a refurbished iPhone with a crack across the screen, had slipped from these same threadbare gray sweatpants with pockets so shallow they might as well be decorative.

The memory of fishing it out, dripping and dead, makes me wince.

I slump back against the wall, instantly defeated.

Fudge muffin. It looks like I’m stuck in here until Detective Vale gets home from work.

When the class lecture running through my earbuds comes to an end, I’m left in the dead quiet.

All I can hear is the loud snoring coming from the French Bulldog sleeping like a baby on the large king-sized bed.

I flop down on the edge of the tub and glare at the blurry, loaf-shaped shadow through the frosted glass. I can picture her smug little face, probably drooling on the comforter and plotting my doom.

Unbelievable. Literally the one time I’m ahead of schedule, the universe decides to lock me in a fancy marble bathroom without my phone. At least the fancy LED mirror has a digital clock in the right corner so I can watch my afternoon tick away while I’m stuck in here.

I’m not proud of this, but for the first three hours, I sit on the floor and wallow in my own self-pity. I’m hungry, I’m tired, and if I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to lose my freaking mind.

By seven p.m., I’m half-asleep on the bathmat, drooling on my arm. That’s when I hear a sharp little bark and a snuffling noise from the bedroom. My head snaps up so fast I almost give myself whiplash.

Through the blurry glass, I catch movement. The black blob launches itself off the bed, stubby legs scrambling, and I know that little demon is up to something.

There’s movement—a shadow, big and broad, crossing behind the frosted glass. For a split second, my brain short-circuits. Holy crap, is someone breaking in? My heart practically punches a hole through my ribs as the snuffling and scrabbling get louder, and then—

A deep voice, cuts through the silence. “What have you gotten into, angel baby?”

I’m suddenly wide awake, hair standing up on my neck. Oh my God, it must be Detective Vale.

The doorknob jiggles. There’s a thunk as the mop handle falls. The door swings open.

Holy freaking cow. The gorgeous giant standing in the doorway is way the heck hotter than what I imagined he would look like.

He’s huge. Like, takes-up-the-whole-doorway huge.

Six foot something, with broad shoulders that fill out a suit like he was born wearing one.

Way the heck hotter than my overactive imagination came up with.

His hair is dark, perfectly cut, with little streaks of silver at the temples that somehow make him look even more intense.

His eyes are dark brown and sharp as hell, and he’s got a serious, no-nonsense expression that says he’s probably seen some things normal people only read about in murder mysteries.

There’s a scar just above one eyebrow. It should make him look scary, but instead, it just makes him hotter, a little more dangerous. Dark-stubble covers his square jaw, and his whole vibe screams I’m-in-control.

Honestly? He looks like trouble in a three-piece suit, or the kind of man who makes bad decisions feel like the best idea you've ever had. His presence fills the bathroom, and my heart is hammering so hard I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. One look from those coffee-dark eyes and girly parts are awake and singing. Kinda like the Frenchie who’s chanting the song of her people from the doorway.