Page 13 of Crown of Smoke

Is that disappointment I see in her expression? Is it because we won’t go on a date or because she won’t get her story?

“Good knowing you, Flynn.” She pulls her door shut and a moment later, she drives out of my life.

5

LUCY

What a night. A crazy, scary night. And yet, meeting Flynn has been… interesting. The woman in me wants to get to know him. Wants to say yes to a date. Wishes he’d kissed her like I’m sure he wanted to.

The practical part of me assures me I’m better off avoiding any romantic entanglements with him. There’s a dangerous edge to him. Besides, if I want to pursue my story, which I do, it’s better if I remain professional. I’m sure he and his buddies know about the Kean family, and I want the opportunity to ask them.

Flynn’s final words suggested I wouldn’t see him again, a strange switch from wanting a date. Perhaps he knew my only interest was in a story. Well, not only, but the only interest I’m willing to pursue at this time.

I park and hurry to my apartment building, the streetlights casting long shadows, triggering reminders of the alley. I enter through the locked entrance and make my way up the stairs. I let out a breath when I’m finally in my apartment, the door shut and locked behind me. I drop my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. My shoulders sag as the adrenaline from the night finally drains away.

The alley. Those men. Their hands grabbing at me, voices thick with violence. My stomach churns at the memory. If Flynn hadn't followed me…

I shake the image from my memory, although the soreness in my arm as I remove my jacket won’t let me forget. I check the bandage. I can’t believe I fainted. Another reason to thank God Flynn was there tonight. And why I should consider heeding his warning.

I don’t consider myself brave. I don’t want to meet those Kean men again. But I am determined. I’m ambitious in my career. I want this story. I want to prove I have what it takes to be a serious investigative journalist.

My mind circles back to Flynn’s apartment, to the men bursting in, to their heated whispers about missions. The journalist in me itches to dig deeper, to understand what Flynn and his associates are really planning. We could help each other, I’m sure of it.

But the memory of his warning rings in my ears. "If you're smart, you’ll stay away from the Keans." The concern in his voice felt genuine, even as everything else about him screamed secrets.

But there’s nothing more I can do tonight. More than anything, I need a shower. I need to wash this night off my skin.

I go to my bathroom and when I see the bathtub, I decide I need a soak more. I have a moment of concern for my bandage but decide I can keep it dry. I turn the faucet, watching steam rise as hot water fills the tub. I drop some lavender bath oil into the water to help calm my nerves.

My reflection catches my eye as I strip off my clothes. The bruises are already forming. Dark smudges where rough hands grabbed me. I touch one on my upper arm, wincing. I should be rethinking this story. That’s the smart thing to do.

But the fact that four large men attempted to stop me from asking questions suggests there is a story. A big one. Coupled with Flynn and his associates’ investigation… I know I’m on the verge of something big.

The water burns as I sink in, but I welcome the sting. It grounds me in the present, away from replaying the night's events. Lavender bath oil clouds the water, its scent filling my lungs with each deep breath.

"Just relax," I whisper to myself, sliding deeper until the water laps at my collarbone, while I rest my bandaged arm on the side of the tub. It’s awkward, but worth it. The heat seeps into my muscles, unknotting the tension.

I close my eyes, focusing on the warm water carrying away the night's horrors. But instead of dwelling on those men in the alley, my thoughts drift to Flynn. The way his muscles flexed beneath his tattoos as he took on the men. His voice, rough yet gentle, warning me away from danger. The way he leaned close to me…

My eyes snap open. No. This bath is supposed to help me forget, not remember. I grab my cloth, scrubbing my skin as if I could wash away the memory of the electricity that sparked between us.

The water ripples as I shift, disturbing the peaceful surface. Like Flynn disturbed my carefully laid plans. One night, and suddenly, my straightforward investigation into the Keans has twisted into something more complicated, more dangerous.

The heat spreads through my body, but it’s not my bath or fear. It’s Flynn. I close my eyes again, allowing myself to imagine saying yes to that date, picture myself sitting across from him at dinner. Would he wear a suit? It’s hard to imagine him in a coat and tie.

He’s watching me from across the table. A sizzle rushes through me when his eyes meet mine. There’s something in his gaze, something deeper than concern, darker than attraction. My entire body hums in response to the memory of his hand over mine, his body close to me, his lips tantalizingly close.

Oh, for goodness’ sake.I shake my head, feeling silly for allowing my mind to drift to Flynn like that. Sure, it’s been awhile since I’ve dated, since I’ve had an interest in a man. But Flynn, as attractive and intriguing as he is, he’s also dangerous.

Would a cop have that edge of danger about him? Would he look at a victim he just saved like he wanted to devour her whole while simultaneously wanting to shield her from harm? Is it just part of his cover that he approached me in the bar? Is he even a cop or agent? What else could he be, though? Who else would be on an undercover mission regarding the Keans except someone in law enforcement?

His offer of a date hangs in my mind. One dinner. One chance to unravel the mystery that is Flynn Tine. There's something about him, an energy that draws me in like a magnet. The way he looked at me, both possessive and protective, is alluring, even as my inner feminist balks at the idea.

My fingertips trace the bandage, remembering how gentle his callused hands felt against my skin. For someone who fights bare-knuckled, who carries himself with such lethal grace that tenderness is a contradiction.

I think back to when he dropped me off at my car. The way his body angled toward mine, his breath warm, his gaze on my lips. Heat pools low in my belly at the memory. I slide my hand over my collarbone and down, brushing over my nipple. My pulse quickens as my fingers trace patterns on my skin, mimicking where I imagine he might touch me. The water caresses me like I picture his hands would, strong yet gentle, and everywhere.

I sink into the fantasy. His blue eyes dark with desire, those full lips finally closing the distance between us, consuming my mouth in a heated kiss. The strength in his arms as he'd pull me close, cage me against his hard chest.

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