Page 134 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

Or worse, the dangerous emotions signaling something far more serious.

And as the tears finally wouldn’t be staunched anymore, they rolled down my cheeks, over his fingers. The eye of the storm had been my trip home.

The scare tactic at the venue.

Nash pulling away from me.

Me wanting someone who might never be able to give himself to me.

Me loving someone who might never be able to be mine.

And worst of all, having him right here, his wrecked blue eyes hot and tinged with red as well. Staring at me as if I was his lifeline and his worst fear.

Was that all we’d be?

A nightmare?

A cold front and a hot wind bashing against each other until there was nothing left but ruins?

“What happened?” he asked huskily.

“It’s nothing.”

“You don’t cry over nothing, duchess.”

“I’m just exhausted.” I pushed him back and scraped my hand across my eyes. Now I probably looked like a raccoon, but no one would see me but my damn pillowcase.

Two of the floors of my brownstone had been combined into one huge, high-ceilinged space. It had been a gut job when I bought it, so I didn’t feel too bad about renovating it to suit me more than the typical Brooklyn architecture.

But because I loved the history of Brooklyn, the third floor was more traditional since it was my pretty much my bedroom and two guest rooms. The fourth floor was my studio. Backwards for some people perhaps, but it had been easier to soundproof the top floor and make it my music room with a handful of studio capabilities. If I needed the big studio sound, I went to Ripper to record anyway.

I lifted one of the smart home remotes that were scattered around the house and flooded the room with light. A huge sandstone and shale fireplace dominated the space with a massive U-shaped sectional couch for entertaining. The back door led to my patio garden space. A reading nook and wall-sized built-in bookcases took up one corner while the dining and kitchen finished out the bottom level.

He followed me into the space, his gaze tracking me instead of looking around the room like most people would. I could feel his laser focus searing my back. I went right to my wine fridge and pulled out a bottle.

I didn’t even give a shit that he didn’t drink. Not right now.

At the moment, all I wanted was some crisp, dry wine to settle me. My face was hot with exhaustion and my joints were overstrung rubber bands. I knew the crash was coming. I’d even planned for it at this point.

My home.

My space.

Now he was here, messing up the plan.

I fought with the cork, my fumbling fingers unable to work my electric corkscrew. He took it from me and uncorked the bottle like a seasoned professional.

He took down a glass, then filled it halfway with the golden liquid and handed it to me. Crossing his arms, he leaned his hip against the marble countertop. His wide shoulders, tall frame, and jet black outfit seemed out of place in my light-filled kitchen.

The beachy-colored cabinets and sea glass tiles usually calmed me. Especially since I hadn’t been home in months. The ritual of lights and wine, even a candle and a trip up to my personal tub—that was how I decompressed.

I took a long drink of wine. It definitely wasn’t working right now.

“Stop staring at me.”

“I can’t. All I’ve been doing is seeing you in my dreams. The flesh is too much for me at the moment.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

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