Three #3
“Taking some time off,” he said, which I immediately knew was a lie.
Russo never took vacations. He wasn’t here for a hayride at the pumpkin patch.
Russo didn’t belong in a quaint resort town.
He was all edge. His idea of politeness was reading you your Miranda rights before he shoved you over the hood of an unmarked police car.
“You don’t take time off,” I pointed out.
Russo shrugged. “Can’t I check up on an old partner?” He cocked his head to one side. He’d gotten a haircut recently, his dirty-blond hair short and tight, every strand in place. Even the slight hint of new gray at his temples made him look sexier somehow. I was man-crushing. Bad.
“Who?” I asked, wondering who else he might know in Lake Sanguis.
“You.” He flashed me the cocky half smile made for the scene in Law and Order when the detectives crack a bad dad joke over a dead body.
I blinked. First of all, I didn’t actually know we were partners. Amazing. Second, I never told Russo I was going back home. Hell, I never even told Russo where home was. I’ll admit the idea of him tracking me down was kind of hot.
Then I remembered Russo usually played more angles than an MMA octagon.
“But why are you really here?” I asked.
He just laughed, noncommittal. “You never said goodbye, just ran out of town.” He almost sounded… put out.
“I figured I was the last person you ever wanted to see,” I said, glancing at my feet. After all, I nearly got the man fired.
“Don’t say that, kid,” Russo said softly.
I glanced up and saw warmth in the man’s gaze.
Genuine warmth. And something more. Maybe it was just because Russo was 100 percent testosterone, exuding the kind of animal magnetism only available to alphas at the top of the food chain.
Was he using that testosterone on purpose? Was he flirting with me?
“But, I messed everything up.”
“No, you didn’t.” Russo’s voice actually sounded… gentle. “You didn’t mess anything up.”
“But… Jared…” I know Russo suffered for my mistake. I wasn’t the only one being trolled. Some of the other cops and some in the media implied that he, the seasoned detective, had been led astray by a novice young podcaster.
Russo gave a magnanimous shrug of his muscled shoulder. “We were both fooled. Jared was on the surveillance tape near at least two murders.” He waved a big, solid hand with thick fingers, the kind that could grab a perp off the streets and have them in cuffs in under two seconds.
Strong hands that could probably hold me up against the wall and do all kinds of amazingly dirty things to me.
“He was a good suspect until he wasn’t,” I grumbled.
“You didn’t lead me anywhere I didn’t want to go.” He met my gaze and held it. Were we still talking about the Canceled Killer case? Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure. “Besides, maybe I got used to your company, and maybe I like it.”
Whoa. The sun had become blazingly hot on this sidewalk all of a sudden. Sweat broke out on my lower back. This was flirting. This was definitely flirting.
“Promise me, the next time you need help, you’ll ask me.” For the first time ever I saw a flash of vulnerability in Russo’s normally tough-guy exterior. With a shock, I realized that by leaving town, I’d actually hurt the man’s feelings.
“Even if I’m fired and evicted again?”
“Especially then,” Russo said. “I can help.”
What exactly did he mean by help? Would he offer me a place to sleep in his king-sized bed, probably with matching grown-up sheets with an actual decent thread count, bought as a set? The thought sent a thrill straight down my spine.
“You would?”
“Of course,” Russo said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if I could’ve called in whatever favor I wanted, whenever I wanted.
I was no damsel in distress, but I had to admit I didn’t mind the fantasy of Russo swooping in with his big biceps and whisking me away. I never seriously considered it before. Russo seemed so far out of my league that I never really considered him a viable option.
Until now.
“I’ve got a soft spot for you, kid.” His blue eyes sparkled and somehow grew a little bluer. “Even though you stole my favorite sweatshirt,” he teased. “I’m pretty sure I can arrest you for petty theft.” He lifted a teasing eyebrow.
I felt my face grow red. “I was going to give it back to you,” I protested.
“Sure you were. You and all my ex-girlfriends.” He flashed me a smile, and I wondered for a second how many exes he had, exactly. Hundreds. Thousands, probably. This man was a walking swipe right.
“Anyway, you shoulda let me know you were leaving town. I would’ve at least bought you a drink.”
The way he said drink made me think of dirty martinis back at his place—naked.
“I didn’t think you ever had down time,” I said. “The caseload never sleeps. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Well, all work and no play makes Russo a dull boy,” he said. “Besides, when it comes to you? The caseload can wait. So, whatcha say? Drinks?”
I felt all kinds of things at once: flattered, a little bit turned on, and slightly petrified. If Russo were a car, he’d be a Lambo with a stick shift and way more engine than I could handle. Take him for a spin, and I think I’d end up rolled over in a ditch.
“I-I like drinks,” I blubbered like I had a concussion, because I had no defense against that much testosterone.
Russo didn’t seem to care that I’d lost my ability to communicate like a nonconcussed human. “Good. What’s your favorite watering hole?”
“Holy Water?” It was the only bar I could think of at that moment, the one I worked in for a hot minute the summer after senior year of high school. Wisconsin was one of the few states where eighteen-year-olds could serve beer.
Holy Water was located inside an old Baptist church two blocks from Main Street, complete with stained glass windows, stone archways, and large wooden crosses.
Worry not—there were still plenty of other churches in town.
Lake Sanguis was still God-fearing. They just also loved their beer, like all of Wisconsin.
“Odd name for a bar,” Russo said.
“Lake Sanguis can be an odd place,” I said.
“I can see that.” Russo glared at the old-fashioned streetlights decorated with colorful wreaths of fall leaves and the big planters filled with gold and maroon mums as if they insulted his sense of clean, modern lines, because they probably did. Russo didn’t do kitsch.
“I’ll meet you there. Six work? Tonight.”
I wanted to scream yes, until I thought about the possibility of having a drink with Russo in public in Lake Sanguis and how long before Tammy found out and told the entire town.
“Uh…” Why was I hesitating? I was a fool.
“I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” I swore his already gravelly voice dropped another octave and reverberated in my abdomen.
“Yeah, I can make it. I’ll meet you there. Uh-huh. For sure. Yep.” I don’t know why I answered yes in four different ways.
Russo smiled slowly. Deliberately. “Good girl.”
I felt like I’d just been given a gold star, and I wasn’t sure what I’d done to earn it.