Chapter Twenty-Three
Eliot
The office is winding down by four thirty, two junior investigators chatting in the break room, my boss already gone for the day, and the admin assistants working on paperwork.
I trudge into my office, ease the duffel bag off my shoulder, and sink into my chair with a groan. I’d give anything to go home and fall into bed, but there’s too much work left to do.
Evidence bags get logged into the chain of custody system, tagged, and handed off to the courier. The sample cans are a separate system, though the process is almost exactly the same.
Writing the preliminary report takes me twice as long as it should. I keep losing focus, I’m so fucking tired.
Unit C, one of six mixed-use retail spaces in the building, is confirmed as the origin point. Smoke alarm disabled prior to ignition. Evidence Bag 2341 contains plastic and wire components that could be from a timer device.
Fire traveled through the ceiling plane gaps in firewall assemblies to adjacent units.
Two fatalities in Unit B have been identified as Delia Castillo and June Castillo. Rear egress compromised. The panic hardware was installed incorrectly, the bar rotated 180 degrees, rendering the push bar inoperable from the interior of the building.
I need a break before I finish. My left shoulder aches, and the back of my neck sends muted sparks of pain racing along nerves that haven’t had full sensation in years.
But after downing a Dr. Pepper in record time, I find enough energy to upload my photos into the system, finish the last of the report, and submit it.
A few minutes before five, Parker texts me.
Back at the office. Paperwork will keep me here for a while.
I stare at the screen for a full minute before responding.
Finished logging the evidence and my prelim report. Sending you a copy. How’s the leg?
Fair to middling. I’m icing it. You heading home soon?
An hour. Maybe less.
I restock my kit, wash the lingering soot from my hands, and tuck my laptop into my work bag. Shit. My files aren’t here. Copies of the inspection reports from Cedar Park and Round Rock, annotated in the margins. They’re sitting on the conference table at the Ranger station.
They could stay there until tomorrow. I’m so tired, I’m going to actively try not to think about work once I get home. Or…
I unlock my phone and send Parker another message.
Left some things in your conference room. Mind if I stop by?
The response is almost immediate.
I’ll be here.
Parker’s in her office, the door half open, chin in her hand, staring at her computer screen. God, she looks wiped. Wisps of blond hair curl around her face, loosed from her braid and never tucked away. I’m not sure she’s seeing anything on the screen in front of her.
I rap twice on the door frame. “Hey.”
She lifts her head, the motion lagging behind the movement of her eyes. A faint smile curves her lips. “Hey, yourself.”
“Okay if I grab my files? Or do I need an escort?”
Some of the light returns to her eyes, and the smile widens. “I think you can find it on your own. The real question is whether you can get back here before I decide to call it a day.”
“Oh? How long you givin’ me?”
She glances down at her watch, pondering for a moment, then returns her gaze to mine. “Not sayin’. That’s half the fun.”
Running through the bullpen would definitely get me noticed. But I lunge for the folder on the far edge of the conference table, ignoring the tug of the old scars across my torso, and the fresh pain along my left shoulder. That’s for later. When kissing Parker isn’t my primary objective.
She’s on her feet when I reach her office, ass braced against her desk, one boot tapping the floor. “Ninety seconds and change. Not bad.”
I kick the door shut, drop the folder on her visitor’s chair, and pull her against me. Our lips meet, and nothing else matters but this. The taste of her. The way she yields when I flick my tongue gently against her mouth. The tiny sound she tries to swallow as the kiss deepens.
Her hand slides up my back, all the way to my left shoulder. Pain sparks up to my neck, and I flinch, biting back a grunt.
Parker stills, the pressure of her fingers lifting enough I can breathe again, but not disappearing entirely. She skims them over my shirt, frowns, and takes a step back. “Turn around.”
Fuck.
“I’m fine. Old injury—”
“There are holes in your shirt, Eliot. Holes that were not there this morning. Turn around.” Hands on her hips, she glares at me, and I don’t dare refuse her a damn thing.
A sigh heaves my shoulders, and I put my back to her.
She eases my collar back slightly, sucks in a sharp breath, and releases it on a huff. “What the hell happened?”
I turn to face her again. “It’s nothin’. A few embers caught me at the scene. I’ve had worse.”
Her side-eye probably breaks suspects down in record time.
“Take your shirt off. I have a first aid kit in my drawer.”
“Parker.” Her name isn’t gentle. The edge to my voice sharpens. “Drop it.”
“I ain’t askin’, Eliot. Shirt off. Now.” She’s around her desk in three steps, crouching and yanking open a drawer.
The fight drains out of me.
This is where she finds out. Right here. In six buttons, she’ll see what fire can do. In five, I’ll know if the kiss we just shared was our last. This thing between us—this thread that’s been pulling us closer for days—could snap if I reach for those last four buttons.
I don’t want to know the answer. For seven years, I haven’t let a soul outside of my doctors see the devastation. I haven’t gotten close enough to anyone for it to matter. But I let my guard down, and Parker slipped through my walls.
The last button comes undone. I ease the shirt off my shoulders, fold it once, and lay it over the back of her guest chair.
Parker braces a hand on the top of her desk as she stands, a first aid kit tucked under her arm. For a moment, she takes me in, then lifts her gaze to mine. “Turn around so I can get to work.”
I expected disgust. Fear. Uncertainty. Horror. Pity. Anything but the soft, no-nonsense tone warmed by a hint of care.
Turning, I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for her to recoil. To tell me she can’t stand touching me. But there’s only the sound of the kit sliding onto the desk, the latch opening, and the rustle of supplies.
Parker’s hands find my shoulder, and a cool antiseptic wipe skims a broken blister. The sting is muted—everything’s muted over scar tissue—and I start to relax. She works quickly, but she’s not rushing. Burn gel. Light, non-stick dressings. Medical tape to secure the edges.
All the while, I stare at the cork board on the wall. Next to the map of Austin, she’s pinned June’s calendar, a handful of Post-It notes in her neat handwriting, and a single commendation certificate hiding in the corner.
The latch snaps shut, and then her palms are resting against my shoulder blades.
Fuck. I want—need—to know what she’s thinking. Is this the end? Or is there still the possibility of us.
Her hands lift, and I turn.
She holds my gaze. Not looking at the scars. She’s looking at me.
I reach for her hand, turning it palm up, and press my lips to the inside of her wrist.
Parker stiffens, but it isn’t until I prepare to let go that I understand why. The skin at the base of her fingers is pale and tight. Burns, at least a few months old. Deeper scars—some jagged, others smooth—mar her palm.
On some level, I knew. I’ve seen them already, but they didn’t register until now.
I don’t ask. Neither does she. But she steps closer, slides her free hand into my hair, and then her mouth is on mine.
I pull her closer, and her hips swivel against me. The sudden rush of blood below the belt leaves my dick testing the strength of my zipper. I’m not sure Parker does anything halfway. Kissing is no exception.
Her free hand settles at my waist, and I don’t flinch at the touch.
She pulls away just enough to take a breath, and I rest my forehead against hers. For a moment, we’re the only two people in the world.
“Tomorrow,” she says, her voice taking on a rich, husky tone. “Dinner. Then…”
“After.”
Her braid’s half undone, her hands still on my skin, and even with the promise of more in only twenty-four hours, I don’t know how to walk away from her.
After another breath, she lifts my shirt from the chair and offers it to me.
I rush through the buttons, then back up until my hand finds the doorknob.
For a long moment, I can’t move. The idea of walking away, of waiting until tomorrow, is actively painful.
But I have to. It’s the only way I’ll know this is truly… real.
“Good night, Parker. Get some rest.”
Her lips twitch. “You too, Eliot. You’re gonna need it.”