Page 96 of Skeletons in the Closet

We were sharing another meal, and I couldn’t have felt more incompetent and awkward.

I didn’t do companionship. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t understand the intricacies of easy conversation. And if he was looking for romance or a relationship, that was a joke. Hadn’t he pieced it together that I was a train wreck and not worth salt?

Meals that didn’t revolve around discussing work were complicated enough, never mind cuddling in bed or sharing a shower. But there we were, taking a break from the case,splitting takeout—not for the first time—with an expectation hanging in the air.

Expectation.It always came down to expectations. That was where I failed people. Story of my life. Mom expected me to save her. Dad expected me to submit. Nana expected me to be Boone.

What did Tallus expect?

The real bugger? I liked Tallus. A lot. More than I should. He was vibrant and energetic. He was gorgeous, and despite his fine-boned frame, his ego didn’t bruise easily. The man had balls of steel. My miserable attitude rolled off his shoulders. He didn’t flinch at my anger, even if it was unfairly directed at him. In fact, there were times I thought it amused him. I’d never met anyone like Tallus, and I hardly knew where to put myself in his presence.

I’d stayed guarded my whole life, stuck in a perpetual state of fight or flight—one dominated my earlier years, and the other monopolized my adulthood. I’d long ago concluded I wasn’t meant to be with others. I was meant to be alone. I would surely drive a rusty nail into the middle of whatever this was if we let it go on for too long. My mouth would fail me like always. I’d lose my temper. He’d see the ugly that lived inside me as clearly as I’d seen it in my father every day growing up under his roof.

“Here.” Tallus handed me a plate with a little of everything and a fork. He’d taken it upon himself to root through the scant cupboards in my makeshift kitchen to find cutlery and dishes, all of them mismatched. He’d also returned with two bottles of water from the fridge.

Beer would have helped. Or bourbon.

Or the smokes still stowed away in a drawer.

I was exactly like the old man. Grasping for crutches. Numbing the pain.

My fingers twitched as I accepted the plate. “Thanks.”

I focused on eating, too uncomfortable to make eye contact. Memories of earlier in the day swirled on repeat inside my head: The weight of Tallus against my chest, his damp hair brushing my chin and nose, and his shower-fresh scent all around me.

It was like a dream, only it had really happened. For a brief minute, I had suffocated on everything Tallus, and I would have died happy if he’d stayed in my arms. My lungs might have burst. My skin might have ignited into red-hot flames. I might have turned into a pile of ash, but for a precious moment, I would have known joy and peace in another human being.

“Do you and Doyle have a history?” Tallus asked, jarring me from my thoughts.

I dashed a glance in his direction. “Doyle? No. Why?”

“He seemed snarly with you. Like there was… a past. I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

“I’m not popular with anyone in the department.”

“I gathered.” Tallus tilted his head and frowned. His attention was on my face, and I squirmed. He set his plate aside and grabbed a water bottle and a brown napkin with the restaurant’s logo printed on it.

“Why are you staring?” I grumbled.

He cracked the lid and tipped the bottle over the napkin, wetting the corner. “At ease, soldier. I’m coming in.” He shifted closer.

I froze out of reflex, and when Tallus reached out and touched my face, I almost jerked away, but I caught myself at the last minute and remained motionless. His fingers were gentle as they angled my jaw to the side so he could evaluate the injury. Concern filled his face.

“You’re bleeding again.”

He touched the damp napkin to my most recent war wound and held it there, applying pressure. His hazel eyes—he wore contacts today, much to my dismay—searched my face knowingly.

I wanted to move out of his hold. I wanted to snarl and smack his hand away and tell him to mind his fucking business and stop drawing attention to things I didn’t want to talk about.

But I didn’t.

I stared back into his warm eyes, captivated by the prisms of green and gold reflected back at me. His long lashes. His expressive and manicured brows. His perfect mouth.

“Did you cut yourself shaving?” he asked.

“What?” It was the inanest assumption imaginable, especially when I had at least three days’ worth of growth on my face.

“Shaving. Is that how this happened?”

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