Chapter 6 #2
"It's one of my many virtues."
She laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest. I want to make her laugh like that all the time. I want to cook for her and watch her smile and argue about evidence protocols until we're both breathless.
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. The wanting isn't new—I've been fighting it for days—but this certainty, this need for it to mean something beyond cameras and PR... that's different. That's dangerous.
"Riley." I set down my fork. "Cards on the table. I like you. Not fake-like, not for-the-cameras-like. Actually, genuinely, inconveniently like you."
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. "Inconveniently?"
"Extremely inconveniently. You're prickly and stubborn and you think I'm a charming idiot—"
"I don't think you're an idiot."
"—and you have terrible taste in coffee when left to your own devices, and you talk in your sleep about accelerant patterns. And my shoulders, apparently." I hold her gaze. "So yes. Inconveniently."
She's staring at me like I've just solved a case she's been working for months. Then, slowly, she sets down her fork.
"I talked about your shoulders?"
"You called them 'unnecessarily broad.'" I can't help the grin. "I took it as a compliment."
Her face goes bright red. "I'm never sleeping in your presence again."
"That seems extreme."
"I have no control over what I say unconsciously. It's a liability."
"Or," I offer, "it's the most honest version of you."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I like you too," she finally says, the words coming out like they're being dragged from her by force. "It's terrible and inconvenient and it makes no logical sense, and my brain has been trying to talk me out of it since the warehouse, but apparently my brain doesn't get a vote."
"Apparently not."
"This is going to complicate everything."
"Probably."
"Wade is going to be insufferable."
"Almost certainly."
"And Hazel is going to lose their mind."
"I give it thirty seconds after we tell them before they've planned an entire social media campaign around our relationship upgrade."
Riley laughs again—helpless this time, the sound escaping her like she's trying to hold it back and failing. I know the feeling.
"We should probably have rules," she says, when she's recovered. "Boundaries. Professional guidelines for dating your fake-turned-real boyfriend while working in the same department."
"Very practical. I'd expect nothing less."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are." I reach across the table and take her hand. Her fingers are cold from the wine glass, and they tremble slightly against my palm. "How about we start with one rule: honesty. No more pretending. If this is real, we do it for real."
She looks at our joined hands for a long moment. Then her fingers tighten around mine.
"Okay," she says. "Real."
"Real."
The word settles between us—simple and certain.
I stand, pulling her up with me. Her eyes go wide behind her glasses, questioning, and I answer by cupping her face in my hands and kissing her.
Not for cameras. Not for Hazel's social media strategy. Not for anyone but us.
She makes a small sound against my mouth—surprise, maybe, or relief—and then she's kissing me back. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I'm not sure if I'm still breathing but I don't care. This is what I've been wanting since that moment at the warehouse, maybe before.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her glasses are slightly crooked. Her lips are swollen. She looks absolutely perfect.
"So," she says, voice unsteady. "That was..."
"Real," I finish.
"Yeah." A smile tugs at her mouth. "Definitely real."
Later—much later—we're on my couch with the wine bottle significantly emptier and Riley tucked against my side like she belongs there. Her head rests on my shoulder, and my arm is wrapped around her in a way that feels both brand new and completely natural.
"The arson cases," she murmurs, half-asleep. "I got the lab results back today. Both fires used the same accelerant. Commercial-grade lighter fluid, specific chemical signature."
"So they're connected."
"Looks like it." She yawns against my shoulder. "Same MO, same accelerant, different targets. Someone's building toward something bigger. The fires are escalating—more damage each time, more risk. Whoever this is, they're getting bolder."
"Or angrier."
"Maybe both." Her hand finds mine under the blanket, fingers interlacing. "I've been cross-referencing the properties. Looking for connections between the warehouse and the commercial building. Owner histories, insurance policies, tenant records. There has to be a link."
"You'll find it."
"I always do." It's not arrogance—just fact. "But I don't like not knowing. Someone out there is setting fires, and until I figure out why, I can't predict where they'll strike next."
"What do you think they're building up to?"
"I don't know yet." Her voice is getting fuzzy with sleep. "But I'm going to find out."
"I know you will."
She's quiet for a moment, and I think she's fallen asleep. Then: "Aiden?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't let me call you names in my sleep again. It's embarrassing."
"No promises."
She makes a grumpy sound that might be a protest, and then her breathing evens out into sleep. I press a kiss to the top of her head, careful not to wake her.
Outside my windows, Copper Ridge glitters in the darkness. Somewhere out there, someone is setting fires. Tomorrow, Riley will hunt them down with that brilliant, meticulous brain of hers.
But tonight, she's here. With me. Real, not fake.
And that's enough.