Sirens (Townsend Harbor #5)

9. Probable Cause

NINE

Probable Cause

A REASONABLE GROUND TO SUPPOSE THAT A CHARGE OF CRIMINAL CONDUCT IS WELL-FOUNDED

Trent’s phone buzzed on the mahogany coffee table, disturbing the fortress of solitude he’d built with his case files and paperwork. The screen lit up with Maggie’s name.

“Talk about a thirst trap,” he muttered, tossing aside a crime scene photo that was as cold and lifeless as a bad dinner date. He eyed the paperwork, the words blurring into a bureaucratic soup that no longer held his interest. Maggie wanted to discuss their latest investigative foray into the Palace Hotel’s cobwebbed corners, but Trent harbored the hope it could be something more…personal.

After he tapped back his reply, his thumb hovered over the send button, cautioning him with all the rational reasons this could wait until tomorrow.

Until daylight.

Until he wasn’t so hungry.

Fuck it.

Trent rose, stretching out the kinks that had formed from hours of poring over documents. His heart did a little shuffle at the thought of seeing her. With a self-deprecating chuckle, he grabbed an expensive bottle of wine off the rack—an indulgence he justified as “politeness” rather than an excuse to impress.

Trent’s fingers brushed over the tailored seams of his jacket as he slipped it on, checking his reflection briefly.

He looked too…something.

Thirsty, his conscience whispered.

“Fuck off,” he told his reflection before grabbing his wallet and keys. “And behave.”

The night air wrapped around him like a cool whisper as he locked his front door and made his way to Maggie’s place. Townsend Harbor hummed quietly around him, tucked in by eight thirty p.m. on a school night. It was the kind of town where secrets were currency, and Maggie was hellbent on mining every last one.

What was he worried about… He didn’t even have secrets to uncover.

It wasn’t a date; it was business. Sort of. But as he climbed the steps, Trent did his best to ignore the electric current of anticipation that danced along his spine. Maggie had that effect—like a live wire hidden in velvet.

He knocked, practicing his most professional smile. But who was he kidding? Every time he saw her, with those fiery curls and curves that could make a preacher curse, he discovered himself wading chest-deep in lust. He was a man of carefully curated control, of finely tuned desires neatly kept in check and applied with practice and skill, yet Maggie Michaels had a way of making him wish for chaos.

Appreciate it, even.

A riot of color, heat, and stimuli assaulted him as the rush of her apartment door opening caressed him with the fragrance of something savory mixed with her own alluring scent.

The mystery herself was wrapped in a bespoke trench coat that hugged her like a second skin. Her grin was Cheshire cat-worthy as she beckoned Trent inside with a flick of her wrist.

“Oh good, you came,” she said, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes doing funny things to his insides.

Not yet. Trent stepped over the threshold, his gaze drawn inexorably to the sinfully red soles of her three-inch-heels. “You’re dressed for going out in that coat and Louboutins,” he said, nodding at her feet.

“Or am I dressed for you coming inside?” She tossed back her curls and sashayed to the kitchen, the click-clack of her steps an extravagant melody.

Fuck. He loved shapely calves in heels.

Trent swallowed a rush of moisture as the smorgasbord of sights, scents, and sounds overwhelmed him with their delightful racket.

“Make yourself at home,” she called over her shoulder, already busy clinking glasses and bottles together. “Throw your jacket wherever.”

As he looked around, his eyes landed on the spotless surfaces and polished floors. There was a faint smell of lemon in the air, and he couldn’t help but notice that everything had been meticulously cleaned and organized. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing she had gone through all this effort for him.

“Thanks, I’ll just—” Trent moved to stow his jacket, but Maggie’s voice cut through as his fingers grazed the coat closet handle.

“Wait, not that one!” There was a hint of panic in her tone that made immediate sense when an avalanche of fabric and fluff barreled out, burying his shoes in the domestic detritus of coats and linens.

“What the—?” He hopped out of the way of the leaning towels of Pisa as they toppled into a final pile of carnage at his feet.

“Oops.” Her cheeks flamed a shade redder than her hair as she glanced from the pile to Trent’s amused expression. “Guess I really need to do some spring cleaning.”

“Didn’t you just get here?” He laughed.

“Yeah, but my textile needs are vast and varied.” She shrugged. “Shove all that back in there, will you? I’ll make the drinks.”

Trent chuckled. “Wouldn’t it be better for everyone involved if I make the drinks?” he suggested hopefully. “Then maybe you can find space in the closet for the coat you’re wearing.”

“Ha-ha, very funny, McGarvey.” The flush on her cheeks deepened to ruby, but her laughter rang genuine. “It’s—uh—fashion, not function.”

“Sure, sure,” he drawled, stepping closer. “You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust, though. It’s warm as the oven in here. How ’bout you take it off?”

Maggie fanned herself theatrically with one hand while the other jerked a shaker with all the pornographic suggestion of those homoerotic Shake Weight adds from back in the day. “Listen, I’ve been practicing, and you can watch me dominate this martini and eat your words.”

I’d rather eat yours.

Memories of her flavor, of the slick, hot, wet, delicious feast that was the confection of her body threatened to knock the starch out of his knees.

“Hit me with your best shot, Lady Mix-a-Lot,” he said, unable to keep himself from folding the towels in a more stackable manner and finding them a secure place on the top shelf of the linen closet.

“Did you just dad-joke?” She snorted.

“No.” Looking down, he grimaced. Of course she didn’t fold her fitted sheets. She didn’t even attempt to do anything but wad them up in a wrinkle pile. How did she even function? “What’s in this recipe?” he asked, hoping to keep the conversation light and uncomplicated.

With a flourish, she recited the concoction she was crafting. “A splash of aged bourbon, a twist of lemon, a dollop of imported black forest honey, and a dash of bitters, the sweetness muddled by some brine from the olives—shaken, not stirred, to perfection, and whispered with my secret ingredient.”

“Sounds both sweet and dangerous,” Trent observed, watching her hands move with precision and confidence as she measured out the top-shelf vodka. “You know I have a taste for the finer things.”

“That’s why I picked this one,” she replied, meeting his eye with a challenge as she handed him the glass. “Thought it might be up to par for our resident alcohol aficionado.”

“Don’t go telling people that—it sounds like a fancy word for an alcoholic.”

She laughed as if he’d invented the idea of a joke and then held her glass rim to his for a toast. “Let’s see if it passes muster.”

The scent of citrus and spirits flirted with his senses. The first sip was bold, complex, and hit just the right notes, much like the woman who made it.

“Damn, Maggie, this is fire.”

“Do I get a good student gold star?” she said with a wink, leaning closer into his space, heat radiating between them like the promise of a summer desert monsoon. “I was kinda hot for teacher.”

Nearly choking on his next sip, he felt some of his chill slipping as he let her fire that flirt across his bow without an answer. “What smells so delicious?” he asked, glancing at the oven to avoid the lift of her sly smile.

“It’s a surprise,” she teased, her voice low and playful. “And slow down there, deputy, this isn’t just any drink—it’s got enough kick to make a mule jealous.”

“Good thing I’m not a mule, then,” Trent shot back, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking another sip. The liquid courage was smooth but packed a punch, warming him from the inside out.

“All right, spill it,” he urged, setting down his empty glass on the coffee table. The flirtatious tension between them was palpable, an electric current that charged the air with expectation. “What did Vee have to say about our town’s risqué history?”

Maggie rested a hip on the counter, the pose doing something rude to his loins. “Weeeell,” she began, “Vee is a font of information and advice, I’ll tell you that much. And somehow the accent makes the dirt sound even dirtier.”

“Yeah, no, British people suck. They’re always naming things after their lady parts. Like Fanny. And Regina, which is not pronounced how you would hope it would be…”

They shared a laugh made slick with social lubricant.

Maggie arched an eyebrow, leaning in closer. “And here I thought Townsend Harbor was all apple pies and church picnics.”

“Oh, it is,” Trent replied. “But those apple pies are laced with hallucinogens, and those church picnics get real weird .”

“Apparently, there were a few more—ahem—‘pies’ being shared than we knew about.” Her laughter was infectious, and he found himself grinning like an idiot.

“It’s so impossible to turn down good pie,” he quipped, enjoying the way her lips curled into a smile at his pun. “I’ve never been good at it, as you know.”

“Deputy Trent McGarvey. Are you being bad right now?” she replied, her gaze lingering on him a moment too long. “Because what would happen if these walls could talk?”

“I’d just hope they’re discreet,” Trent said, chuckling. “Can’t have the town scandal overshadowing your podcast debut.”

“True,” she conceded, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Though, I must admit, learning about everyone’s…appetites has been rather enlightening.”

“Enlightening?” he echoed, the word hanging in the air like a challenge. “Do tell.”

“Let’s just say”—she leaned in, her breath warm against his ear—“that some appetites are best explored without restraint.”

“Sounds like a recipe for trouble,” he managed, his voice rougher than he intended. His heart raced as the heat of her closeness seeped into his skin.

“Or for an unforgettable night,” she countered, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper.

Trent swallowed hard. Their banter was spiraling into uncharted territory that made every nerve in his body sing.

The complicated martini wasn’t the only thing tonight with a hidden agenda.

“Townsend Harbor’s got more secrets than a nun’s knicker drawer,” she said with a playful glint in her eye.

“Never pegged you for the religious type,” Trent quipped, his attempt to ride the wave of innuendo feeling more like a dog paddling in the deep end.

“I don’t get on my knees for just anyone,” she replied, her voice dropping to a husky pitch that sent a jolt straight to Trent’s core. “Though I do tend to call God’s name at the most important parts.”

He cleared his throat, trying to refocus.

Maggie tilted her head, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the fabric of Trent’s shirt as if by accident, but the touch lingered, sending a ripple of electricity up his arm. She was casual, yet deliberate, like a cat pawing at a ball of yarn, unraveling him one thread at a time. She leaned forward, her eyes shining with unspoken promises as they locked on to his.

He detected a hint of mischief there, a silent dare for him to dive into the unknown waters she was charting. “You know, Trent, sometimes the best way to understand a subject,” she murmured, her breath tickling his skin, “is to get up close and personal. To explore and understand it. Learn what makes it hum…”

Trent’s breathing sped up as if he’d been caught in a foot chase, the kind that ended with hands on knees, gasping for air. Only this time, his racing pulse wasn’t from running down a suspect—it was all her.

Maggie, with her wit sharp enough to slice through a man’s defenses, had him teetering on the edge of a cliff called “What the Hell Are We Doing?”

“Michaels,” he managed, the word half prayer, half curse as he willed his body not to betray the heady rush of desire.

“Call me Maggie,” she said, her voice low and smooth like whiskey over ice. “Everyone else does.” Her hand rested mere inches from his own—a distance that might as well have been a chasm and a hairsbreadth all at once.

He was about to close that gap, to bridge the space with a touch, when the mundane ding of the oven timer cut through the thickening air. Trent blinked, the spell momentarily broken, as Maggie sprang up to tend to her culinary surprise.

“Just wait until you get this in your mouth.” She pulled out a tray of flaky pastries, their golden crusts promising a taste of the divine. “Pork rolls,” she announced with a flourish, setting the tray on the counter. “It’s from this little Polish/Puerto Rican bakery on Long Island—you wouldn’t believe it. They were featured on that show… What’s it called? Shitty Snack Shacks ? Fucky Food ?”

“I don’t watch food on TV I can’t immediately eat.” Trent’s lips quirked into a reluctant smile despite the simmering tension.

He watched as she fussed over the rolls, her movements deft yet unnecessarily dramatic, as if she were presenting a treasure unearthed from a culinary crypt.

“The place looks like a front for a Mafia burial ground, but those pork rolls are divine. They could start wars, end feuds, or, you know…” She trailed off, shooting a coy glance his way.

“Or make a man lose his damn mind?” he suggested, his words threading the needle between jest and earnest.

“Something like that,” Maggie replied, her laugh ringing clear and bright. “Careful, though. They’re hot.”

Trent watched as she plated the pork rolls, her movements disjointed, betraying inner turmoil. The flush on her cheeks wasn’t just from the heat of the kitchen; it was a bloom of embarrassment or excitement—he couldn’t tell which. A fine sheen of perspiration had begun to glisten on her forehead, and she shot furtive glances at the crackling fireplace like an Old West gunslinger ready to draw.

“It’s heating up in here,” he said. “Why don’t you take off your coat?”

Her response was immediate and over-the-top—a swift clasp of the belted jacket as if it were a life vest on the Titanic . “No!”

“Okaaaay…” Trent replied, eyebrows raised. “You sure? Because you look about two seconds away from spontaneously combusting. And if Vee had a lot to say, and the oven stays on, you’ll probably just dehydrate.”

She let out a breath that could’ve powered wind turbines, and her shoulders slumped in defeat, hair framing her face like flames licking the edges of paper. With a sheepish yet rueful grin, she admitted, “I invited you over to seduce you. I thought you were clever enough to pick up on that.”

Trent stood frozen, arousal mingling with confusion. “Seduce me?” He was as dumbfounded as a rooster finding a peacock feather in its coop. Did that make him the cock? “I’m sorry, Maggie, but I read this all wrong.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said about the pork rolls?” Maggie retorted, gesturing wildly as if directing airport traffic. “They’re basically a love letter stretching from New England to the Atlantic City boardwalk. Plus, ‘pork’ is practically a euphemism for what I was hoping we’d?—”

“Listen, Michaels,” Trent said, scratching the back of his neck and clutching her surname like the flimsy intimacy barrier it was, “I don’t know if?—”

“I mean, if we were diving into unsexy food, I would have made my famous Boston baked beans, because nobody wants to deal with those repercussions in bed.”

She was adorably earnest, but her attempts at seduction were about as subtle as a foghorn in a library. It was clear she was out of her depth, floundering in a sea of awkward innuendo.

“Okay, I get it,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Pork rolls equal matrimony. Got it. But let’s put a pin in the culinary foreplay, shall we?”

“Foreplay?” Her eyes twinkled, though her cheeks burned scarlet.

“Metaphorically speaking,” he clarified. His gaze now locked on to hers, he noticed the flicker of desire dancing in their depths.

“If you wanted foreplay, I’d have done something with bacon and probably some kind of glaze with?—”

Trent couldn’t let her finish the sentence, so he did the only thing he could think of by crowding her back toward the counter with his big body. Reaching down and lifting her onto the granite, he placed his hand at the nape of her throat, testing the pulse fluttering like a caged bird.

“Maggie?” he growled, scowling at her as all the levity drained from his body.

“Yeah?” She blinked her owlish eyes at him.

“Shut up.”

He robbed her of her chance to disobey by capturing her mouth with his own.

Maggie gasped as McGarvey’s lips trailed a hot, wet path down her neck. The ache between her thighs intensified with every nip of his teeth, every swipe of his tongue.

If only she’d read Cosmo like the other girls, they might have gotten to this part sooner.

Yeah, a familiar, tobacco-roughened voice belched in her ear. We both know you wasn’t like the other girls.

Fucking Charlie.

It was bad enough his name was still plastered all over the legal documentation proving her right to exist. Now she had to put up with that ferret-faced asswad’s voice tearing around her head.

Damn him.

A sharp tug on her earlobe shattered the fantasy, jerking her back to the present.

With a growl, Maggie sank her nails into McGarvey’s shoulders and pulled him closer, mentally squeezing Charlie out.

Hunh. Wouldn’t have figured you for the type to spread them for a guy who’s so…fancy.

Anger flared, hot and bright.

As if Charlie had anything to say when it came to seduction. He was the kind of guy who considered her bending over to load the dishwasher a sexual proposition.

McGarvey pulled back, eyes narrowing as he studied her face. “Hey,” he said, his passion-laced voice low and rough. “What’s going on up there?”

Maggie forced a smile and trailed her fingers down his chest. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Why don’t you come back here and remind me what we were doing?”

He caught her wrist, stilling her movements. “Nice try. But I can tell you’re distracted. And for what I’m planning, I need your full attention.”

Maggie swallowed against the lump in her throat. Goddamn detail-noticing motherfucker . His gaze was too perceptive, his mind too sharp.

With a sigh, Maggie dropped her hands to her sides. “It’s…Charlie.”

“Your almost-ex?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The same,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “He has this annoying habit of popping into my head at the worst times.”

“Like right now?” he asked, a hint of humor lacing his words.

“Exactly,” she said, looking down at her hands.

She waited a beat, anticipating the subtle shift in his features that would telegraph jealousy. Disappointment. Uninterest.

When these failed to materialize, she continued. “It’s kind of like he’s got a timeshare in the part of my brain that’s determined not to let me enjoy any damn thing.”

McGarvey studied her for a long moment, expression calm and thoughtful. “If this is too soon?—”

“I… No. I mean, it’s not. Like, at all.” She made a vague gesture between them. “I just can’t seem to turn my brain off, you know?”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m basically ruining the entire mood.”

“Don’t apologize.” He cupped her face in his hands, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “Talk to me. Tell me what sort of bullshit the bastard’s saying.”

“You know what?” Maggie said, fixing what she hoped was a seductive smile on her face. “I’d much rather you drown him out.”

Hooking her ankles behind him, she pulled him closer.

Once again, Maggie felt herself melting, lost in the sweet press of his lips. She sighed into the kiss, warmth pooling low in her belly.

McGarvey’s hands skimmed up her sides, clever fingers finding the underside of her breasts. She arched into his touch with a gasp, desire flickering to life inside her.

You didn’t use to like it when I tried to tongue ya. Always bitching that you could still taste the pastrami I had for lunch, like you wasn’t the one who packed it for me.

“Fuck’s sake!” Maggie growled. Drawing back, she exhaled a hot, impatient sigh.

“Ready to talk now ?” McGarvey asked, the self-destruction-worthy dimple flashing in his left cheek as he studied her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, then, remembering he’d already told her not to apologize, blundered ahead full speed. “You’ve been so patient with me, and I?—”

“We have all the time in the world,” he said. “We can take it as slow as we need to.”

He ducked his head, demonstrating by trailing kisses along her neck at a deliciously maddening pace. Maggie tipped her head back, eyes fluttering shut.

He dragged his lips to the sensitive spot just below her earlobe, flicking his tongue out to taste the hollow there. Shivers cascaded down her spine, and she grabbed his shoulders to steady herself, her breath hitching. He traced the curve of her hip before gently gripping the soft flesh.

Hips like that, at least a man will know you can cook.

The sound of her father’s voice drifted through her mind, as familiar as the cadence of her own heartbeat.

“Okay,” Maggie announced, sitting bolt upright, her eyes flying open. “Timeout.”

McGarvey paused, brows drawing together in concern. “What is it? Am I moving too fast?”

“No, not at all. I just…” She shook her head, fully aware of how batshit crazy she must look right now. “For the record, I was really hoping we could skip this whole part and start fresh tonight, but since I’ve got an entire choir of misogynistic assholes chirping like cracked-out crickets in my ear, I guess we’ve gotta go there.”

Hugging her trench tighter around her, Maggie crossed her ankles and took a deep breath.

“About you and Sheriff Forrester?—”

McGarvey nodded knowingly. “I thought it might have something to do with that.”

And a very particular something at that.

“Would you say she’s more your usual type?”

He blinked at her, a furrow creasing his smooth brow as he looked down at her, surprise flickering in his eyes. “My usual type?” he repeated.

Maggie held her breath, silently cursing herself for bringing it up. But it was too late to take it back now. Instead, she tried to lighten the mood with a playful smile. “You know, tall, tawny, leggy, athletic raven-haired beauty in law enforcement. Um, basically the complete opposite of me?”

“Ah.” Understanding dawned on his face, and he leaned back against the counter. “Maggie, Sheriff Forrester is my boss. Don’t you?—”

“I mean if she weren’t your boss,” she interrupted.

“Let me finish.” And why the gravel in his tone made her feel like she’d swallowed a brick, Maggie wasn’t exactly certain. “Sheriff Forrester is my boss. We’re around each other constantly. Late nights. Early mornings. Empty parking lots. If I wanted to still be fucking her, I’d still be fucking her. Make sense?”

Well, it did right up until the not-at-all unpleasant highlight reel of two such attractive people sport-fucking all over this Hallmark postcard of a town began unfurling in her mind.

Still, a welcome change from Charlie in his pit-stained tank top, his straight, crisp armpit hair like a full set of bangs as he plucked at an orange spot above the left nipple and issued the invitation for her to smell it and tell him if it was from the chicken parm or steak pizzaiola so he would know how long he’d been wearing it.

“I suppose,” she said, fighting the urge to gnaw the inside of her lip.

“Then why don’t you look like you believe me?”

His words were meant to reassure her, but Maggie felt the twist of insecurity in her gut all the same. “An overabundance of investigative skepticism?”

From the way his eyes softened, McGarvey obviously knew it was a blatant ploy on her part but seemed to be willing to assist her in perpetuating it.

“Oh, yeah baby,” he said, positioning himself in front of her once more. “Hit me with that sexy journalist jargon.”

Maggie narrowed her eyes at him in mock censure. “Are you making fun of me, deputy?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, the traces of amusement lingering in his eyes as his gaze moved down to her mouth. “Not when I could dream about this instead.”

He traced a line down the side of her face before his knuckles brushed against her mouth. The touch was a mere flutter of contact, but it sent sparks darting up and down her spine.

His lips met hers in a gentle kiss that was all the more electrifying for its softness. He moved his hands to her waist, scooting her toward the counter’s edge before cupping her knees.

“Open them,” he ordered her. “Open your legs for me, Maggie Michaels.”

And her body complied even though her brain did not.

I’ll bet him and that tasty piece of a sheriff did it just like this after the Christmas party. On her desk. Or a file cabinet. Maybe the copier. I seen that in a movie once ? —

“But if you had to choose a type…” Maggie found herself mumbling against his lush lips.

McGarvey stilled, his next breath deep and slow.

They stayed silent for several heartbeats, a charged moment full of potential. Then he stepped closer to her, so close that the heat from his body brushed against hers.

“I know,” she said. “I know I don’t have any claim on your history, and it’s not really any of my business, but?—”

He captured her chin in a gentle grip and tipped it up until she was looking into his eyes. “My type is a woman who isn’t afraid to call me on my bullshit. My type is the kind of woman who can turn wordplay into foreplay. My type, Maggie Michaels, is you .”

How was it possible for one man to undo decades of damage with a few simple words? She didn’t know, but gods, she was grateful for it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, realizing he probably had no idea what she was actually thanking him for.

McGarvey smiled, brushing his thumb over her lower lip. “This is all the thanks I’ll ever need.”

Their mouths were a hairsbreadth from meeting when more words came tumbling out of hers.

“So you’re saying you haven’t been with anyone my size?”

McGarvey paused mid-lean, the dimple returning for an encore as he shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” she sputtered, lifting her hands to her face. “I don’t know why I asked that. That’s a lie. I do. The way you were around the sheriff, how you were tripping all over yourself…” Her throat tightened, cutting off the remainder of her words.

In an instant, his face shifted from earnest to angry. His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Fuck me. You didn’t think I was embarrassed about being caught by my boss. You thought I was embarrassed about being caught with you .”

The truth of it hit Maggie like a slap across the face. To her horror, she felt tears welling up in her eyes, and she tried desperately to blink them away.

“Hey,” McGarvey murmured, his anger evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. He reached out to touch her arm, but Maggie pushed him away and covered her face with her hands.

Her vision began to blur as her lower lip twitched into a wobble.

God. Fucking. Damn it.

As tears spilled down her cheeks, she felt the solid warmth of McGarvey’s hands on her knees.

“Even if you’re not embarrassed by me,” she said, her voice shaky, “I need you to know that I know I’ll never be ‘that girl.’”

McGarvey furrowed his brow, puzzled. “What girl?”

“You know,” Maggie continued. “ That girl . The one who sits alone at a coffee shop, and people walking by fall in love by accident. The girl that’s pretty enough to pretend to be surprised when people tell her she is. The one whose hair looks effortlessly sexy in a messy bun, and having a sense of humor is a bonus feature instead of a requirement that justifies her presence. The one whose messes get to be endearing because it’s a relief to know she’s not as perfect as she looks.”

McGarvey shook his head in disbelief. “No, you look, Michaels,” he began, leaning in so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. His eyes were fierce, a storm brewing just off the coast. “I don’t know what kind of asshole your ex was or what he said to you to make you think you’re anything but a fucking feast for every single one of my senses, but I can assure you that by the time the sun drags its ass up over the horizon in the morning, you will know exactly how I feel about every part of your body.”

The intensity of his words sent a shiver down Maggie’s spine, making her heart race and her palms sweat. She searched his face for any sign of insincerity but found none. The truth was there, burning in his eyes like twin beacons, guiding her out of the fog of self-doubt.

So why did his declaration piss her right the hell off?

“I don’t need your reassurance, okay?” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I know that I’m allowed to love my body, and dress however the fuck I want. I know I’ll never lack for men who want to fuck me. But before I’ll ever get to know whether they like me, I have to make sure they like my body type first because I’m never not aware that I repulse certain men just by existing. I’m never not aware that for those men, any other weird, or annoying, or undesirable quality I have will always be multiplied by my size.”

McGarvey’s face remained impassive, but his gaze held a softness that made her pulse surge. He seemed to be searching for the right words to say, but they were lost somewhere between his brain and his tongue. Instead, he simply looked at her— really looked at her—and she could feel his gaze peeling back the layers of her soul.

Just then, Roxie trotted over, her tail wagging as she ran into the legs of all three barstools before gently nuzzling Maggie’s ankle. As her hands fell from her face, she caught sight of her mascara-streaked fingers and felt a jolt of mortification.

“Shit,” she muttered, staring down at her ruined makeup. “This is just great.”

McGarvey took a step back, and, for a heartbeat, she thought he intended to turn around to leave.

She probably wouldn’t have even blamed him.

But instead, he walked over to the counter, dampened a paper towel, and brought it back to her. Maggie stared at it, expecting him to hand it to her. Instead, he guided her hand back to her side and began to gently dab her tear-stained face himself.

“Here,” he said, his voice gentle as he wiped the tear tracks from her cheeks. “Hold still.”

“I’m okay,” she said, attempting to swat him away.

“You’ve been crying, and you wear contacts,” he said, his voice soft but laced with the faintest hint of humor. “One slip with those nails, and your vitreous humor will be part of your skin care routine.”

She couldn’t help the small, surprised laugh that bubbled up from her chest, even as she fought to keep her eyes from filling with fresh tears. His touch was featherlight, soothing away the sting of her earlier humiliation as easily as he blotted the mascara-smudged tracks on her cheeks.

“Thanks,” Maggie whispered, feeling an odd sense of vulnerability as she sat still. The warmth of his hands on her skin sent shivers down her spine, while the intoxicating scent of him filled her senses.

“Better,” he said, stepping back to survey his work. She nodded, touched by his concern.

“Well, this is officially the worst seduction ever, yeah? I went to all this trouble and couldn’t even leverage the one tool in my arsenal that has anything to do with sex on purpose.”

McGarvey raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “And what tool would that be?”

“Vee talked me into this ridiculously lush silk slip,” she explained, rolling her eyes.

“Go put it on,” he said.

Maggie hesitated, suddenly unsure if that was the right move.

“Maybe I’d better just take a rain check for now.” She slid off the counter, her feet barely touching the ground before McGarvey’s hand seized her arm. He yanked her back, and she found herself flush against his body, feeling the hard planes of his chest pressed against her curves. As she gazed up into his eyes, a full-body chill shivered through her. The hunger in his leonine gaze was raw, almost feral.

“Go put on that silk slip,” he growled, his voice low and commanding.

“McGarvey, I—” she began, but he silenced her with a firm but gentle hand at her throat.

“That wasn’t a fucking request.”

Maggie swallowed beneath his grip. “That’s the thing. It’s already on. Beneath this coat.”

She watched the recognition dawn in the depths of his eyes and ripple outward through his features.

“I have an idea,” he said.

Taking her by the hand, he led her to the bedroom and pointed her toward her closet. “You’re going to go in there, and you’re going to come out in whatever you feel the sexiest in. I’m going to wait out here for as long as you need. Got it?”

Maggie nodded, stepping into the closet and closing the door behind her.

Running her fingers over the velvet hangers, she experienced the jolt of unwelcome revelation.

They all belonged to her life with Charlie.

The only item she owned that her bloviating gasbag of a husband had neither acquired nor touched was the one clinging to her skin beneath this coat.

Maggie drew in a deep breath, unbelted the trench, and let it puddle to the floor. When she opened them again, she made herself meet her eyes in the full-length mirror affixed to the back of the closet door.

Now or never.

She found McGarvey lounging against the headboard, shirtless, watching her with hooded eyes. Maggie paused in the threshold, suddenly shy under the intensity of his stare.

“Come here,” he rasped.

Heart in her throat, she crossed the room. McGarvey’s hands settled on her hips, fingers tracing the curve through the silk.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured, dragging his eyes down the length of her body. Maggie flushed, torn between embarrassment and pleasure at the blatant appreciation in his eyes. “And all mine,” McGarvey added, meeting her eyes again. His smile turned predatory, sending a thrill of anticipation down her spine.

She smiled, desire melting her lingering shyness, and leaned down to capture his mouth in a searing kiss.

His hands roamed over her body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. By the time he eased her onto the bed beneath him, need pulsed through her veins like liquid flame.

“Please,” she breathed against his mouth.

His lips curved into a knowing smile. “Patience,” he murmured. Maggie whimpered in protest, arching into his touch as his fingers skimmed along the edge of her slip. McGarvey’s breath hitched, his restraint visibly fraying. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, fisting a hand in her hair to angle her mouth up to his. She pushed at the waistband of his jeans, shoving the offending fabric down and freeing him.

He hissed in pleasure as she wrapped her fingers around his length, stroking in a slow, deliberate rhythm. His hips bucked into her grip, and Maggie grinned against his mouth, relishing the effect she had on him.

“Enough.” Catching her wrist, McGarvey dragged it away from him and pinned it above her head, slipping his other hand beneath the fabric to find the source of her need.

Maggie arched with a gasp, writhing under the skillful strokes of his fingers. “Trent,” she whimpered, beyond caring how desperate she sounded. His eyes gleamed, his breath coming fast.

“Not yet,” he said hoarsely. She moaned in protest, but McGarvey refused to be moved. Not until she was trembling on the edge of release did he finally relent, settling between her thighs.

She cried out as he filled her, the slip bunching around her waist. He stilled for a breathless moment, gazing down at her with a mix of awe and tenderness that made her heart ache.

Then he began to move, and Maggie lost herself in the slow, relentless rhythm of their joined bodies. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only McGarvey and the exquisite pleasure spiraling through her once more.

Tonight, there were no doubts or fears. Only this—only them. And it was enough.

With a slow smirk, he reached out, pushing the top of her negligee aside, revealing the fullness of her breasts. A low growl rumbled from his throat as he palmed them, pushing them together. His thumbs brushed against her nipples, the contact sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core.

Taking one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, McGarvey gently rolled it, sending electricity sparking through Maggie’s body. Her back arched in response; a breathy moan escaped her lips. He continued the sweet torment on the other nipple, alternating between pinching and pulling gently, then curled his hips into her, filling her slow and deep.

She gasped, digging her fingers into his shoulders as he began to move. Each stroke brought her higher, closer to the edge, the pleasure building into a cresting wave.

“Trent…” she said again, her voice shaky with need. He silenced her with a kiss, his lips devouring hers as he continued his relentless rhythm, then slid his hand down between them, finding her sensitive nub and rubbing slow circles around it.

“That’s it, baby,” he urged.

A surge of pleasure rushed through Maggie, coiling tighter and tighter within her. She keened against his mouth, writhing beneath him as he drove her over the brink.

His breath hitched as she tightened around him, her walls convulsing in pleasure.

“ Fuck, ” McGarvey roared, losing himself inside her in hot pulses.

Maggie came back to herself slowly, her cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest. His heart thudded steadily under her ear, his breathing deep and even. The slip had pooled down around her waist at some point, but McGarvey made no move to adjust it.

“You okay?”

Maggie smiled, nuzzling closer. “Mmm. Very okay.”

McGarvey huffed a quiet laugh, squeezing her gently. “Good. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t break you.”

“Not a chance,” she said dryly. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, tracing the familiar lines of his face. “You know, for someone so particular about everything else in your life…”

He arched a brow. “Yes?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes softened, crinkling at the corners. “Hey.” He nudged her chin up with a knuckle. “Where’d you go?”

Maggie shook her head, smiling through the sting of tears. “Nowhere. I’m right here.”

She leaned up and kissed him, slow and sweet. McGarvey made a low sound of contentment, tightening his arms around her.

“You are fucking irresistible, you know that?” He ran his hands down her sides, flexing when they came to the curve of her ass. “Every inch of you.”

He deepened the kiss as his hands roamed over her body. By the time they broke apart, Maggie was breathless and trembling against him.

“I want this,” she whispered, meeting his eyes. “I want you.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across McGarvey’s face. He gripped her hips and lifted, settling her more firmly against him.

“Well then, Miss Michaels,” he purred, voice like gravel, “I believe you have my full attention.”

She swallowed hard, anticipation and nerves swirling in her stomach.

He tilted her chin up, staring into her eyes. “You still with me?”

She nodded, unable to speak. His hands were warm against her skin, grounding and reassuring.

“Good.” McGarvey leaned in, breath ghosting over her lips. “Because I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

He kissed her again, igniting a fire in Maggie’s veins. By the time he pulled back, she was panting, desire clouding her thoughts. She whimpered, arching into his touch.

“Shh.” He nipped at her jaw, then soothed the sting with his tongue. “I’ve got you.”

One hand slid under her gown, teasing along the edge of her bra. Maggie gasped, clutching at his shoulders.

“Off,” he commanded, grasping the hem of the slip.

She hurried to comply, tossing the silken sheath aside. His gaze raked over her, hot and appreciative, before he swooped in to capture one nipple in his mouth.

“Please,” she gasped, desire burning white-hot in her veins. She needed more, needed all of him. “I need you again.”

McGarvey chuckled. “Patience.”

Dizziness swept over Maggie, and she clutched at him for support. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in close.

“We’re doing it my way. Understand?”

Only when he guided her up to her knees on the bed facing the mirror affixed to the back of her bedroom door did she understand what he had in mind.

Maggie swallowed, heart pounding, and met his gaze in the mirror. His eyes were dark with desire, but there was a question in their depths. She knew, then, that he would stop if she asked. But she didn’t want to stop. She wanted everything he was willing to give her.

And more besides.

“Now, look at yourself,” he added, positioning himself behind her, his hands resting gently on her hips. “And see what I see.”

Maggie’s reflection stared back at her, flushed and bright-eyed. Her tousled red hair framed her face like a corona of flame, making her eyes look greener in the dim light. But it was the array of freckles scattered across her skin that caught McGarvey’s attention next.

“See this?” he murmured, tracing one finger over the constellation, starting from her neck down to her shoulder and further down across her bare torso.

Maggie shivered under his touch, goosebumps blooming over every inch of her skin. “Yes.”

“This is mystery,” he whispered. “Even if it took me a hundred years, I’d want to map every single one. And this?” He traced the curve of her shoulder down to the swell of her breast, cupping it to relieve her of its weight. “This is beauty.”

He kissed the spot he’d traced, his lips hot against her fevered skin. Maggie arched toward him instinctively.

“And this,” he murmured, trailing his hands down to cup her ample hips. “This is desire.”

She met her own eyes in the mirror—flushed and wanton, lips parted and eyes heavy-lidded with need. She looked…like sex.

Like passion.

Like need.

Like a woman.

He moved his fingers lower to circle her navel. “And this?” he asked. “Curvature that invites my touch.” Maggie felt a shiver run down her spine at his words, her entire body humming with anticipation. “This,” he continued, sliding one of his hands down to trace the outside of her thigh, “is strength.”

And then he was moving her, guiding her onto the bed until she was on her back and he was above her, his body a delicious weight pressing against hers. His mouth found hers again, his hands wandering over her with a possessive touch that left her gasping.

“Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” she breathed.

McGarvey’s smile was slow and predatory. “Good girl.” He kissed her again, deep and claiming, and Maggie surrendered to the flames.