Page 42 of Shadows of Justice

The orange glow is back, its hue akin to what I imagine heaven would be bathed in—if I believed in that shit.

I’m delectably warm, but not too warm. Just enough to make me want to snuggle deeper into the soft shag pillow that I’m drooling on. That might have been the best night’s sleep I’ve gotten in weeks, and I’m not totally ready to let it go yet.

I blink at my surroundings, and suddenly all thoughts of returning to my slumber vanish. I sit up straight and peer around. I’m in Leo’s living room, on the overstuffed leather couch. Someone covered me with a blanket, and I’m absolutely disoriented. My hazy thoughts register the sound of a coffee maker, confirmed by the aroma filling the room.

“Buen día,” Leo purrs, and my head turns toward what is steadily becoming my favorite sound.

He’s gazing at me from across the space, leaning one arm on the kitchen island and holding a steaming cup of coffee in the other. He’s shirtless—I can’t help but note—wearing only gym shorts, and he’s glistening with sweat. A pair of worn boxing gloves rest on the counter beside him.

My mouth runs dry and I blink repeatedly, probably looking akin to a cartoon character when the hot girl comes on the screen.

“Morning,” I manage to squeak.

“Coffee?” He rises to his full height and heads toward the impressive coffee machine. “Or espresso, if you prefer?”

“Coffee’s fine,” I say, averting my eyes from his chiseled stomach. It flexes with every move that he makes, his massive size adding to the intricate assortment of muscles—muscles that I didn’t even know you could sculpt to utter perfection. My eyes catch on the tangled patterns of his scars that nearly reach his bulging biceps. In the bright morning light it’s now easy to see that they’re layered, multicolored, as though not from one injury, but many.

Yet another story I’d give my left tit to hear, as long as it were narrated by this puzzle of a man.

I dart to the half-bath across the living room, the blanket still clutched around me. I do my business and then assess the morning damage in the mirror. I wish I had a toothbrush, but what I see is not too shabby. I comb my hair with my fingers and fix my disheveled camisole, feeling like a broad doing the walk of shame. Even though, to my traitorous vagina’s dismay, nothing scandalous happened last night. Leo was a perfect gentleman. I remember talking long into the night and long into the bottle of bourbon, both of us pretty tipsy by the end. He’s funny, and he thinks I’m funny, as he told me twice last night—I remember both times perfectly.

Something about this man turns me into an utter cheeseball, because his compliments light me up brighter than the fucking LA skyline.

Probably all the daddy issues.

Satisfied, I leave the bathroom, ditch the blanket, and join Leo in the kitchen. He hands me coffee in another glass mug. I sip the robust, hearty liquid, impressed with the quality.

“I fell asleep?” I ask lamely, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“Sí, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You were really out—you didn’t even hear my workout on the bag,” he says, amusement dancing on his features.

“What?” I ask suspiciously, when his lips twitch.

“You drool.”

“I do not!” I say, and he laughs, the velvety sound like music to my ears. Even his laugh sounds sensual.

My face heats and I go to the machine to put sugar in my coffee, conscious that his burning gaze is on me the entire time. The air between us feels electric, charged with all of the unsaid things that neither of us are about to say. Something about sharing the early morning light just feels so intimate, a time normally reserved for families or people that have seen each other naked.

“So,” I say, eager to clear my head, “we talked about your childhood and past, my childhood and past, my academy days, both our college days, but we somehow didn’t discuss the Dogs situation.”

“Don’t forget your solid teenage aspirations to be the next American Idol,” Leo says, with a completely straight face.

I quirk a brow. “You know I’m trained to take guys like you down in less than a minute, right?”

Leo laughs again. “Now that I’d like to see. Do you fight?” He leans an elbow against one of the countertops as he regards me, cool-as-a-cucumber style.

“I think it’s important to be able to pack a punch. No one suspects me,” I gesture at myself, “of being a badass. I use it in my favor.”

“Agreed,” Leo says, eyeing me like a hungry predator, and my skin warms. “So, do you take kickboxing classes at the YMCA, or . . .”

I narrow my eyes at him. He’s teasing me, and I don’t fucking like it.

“I started Krav Maga in high school. I maintain it by sparring with the guys at the station. I have a pretty good reputation for being hard to beat.”

Leo’s gaze darkens, all traces of his smile fading. He straightens and comes toward me, instantly awakening my fight-or-flight reflex. I set the coffee down and despite myself, take a step backward. There’s a look in his eyes that makes me either want to undress or bolt. I swallow, my breath growing shallow, as he comes close enough to me that I can count his individual eyelashes. I breath him in, his scent of sweat and musk infiltrating my senses. It gives me a lightheadedness that I could be happy to get high off of for days.

“These ‘guys,’” he says, “are they appropriate with you?”

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