Page 22 of Concealed

“Of course not, but… Never mind. I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Tell me,” I insist.

“I just… Think the profession attracts a certain kind of man. That’s all.”

I raise my eyebrows. “And what kind of man would that be?”

“One who thinks the rules don’t apply to him and who has a power complex.”

“Is that what you think about Gabe?”

She purses her lips. “He’s different.”

“But I’m not?”

“I don’t know you well enough to say if you are.”

“So, you know me well enough to assume I’m a dick, but you don’t know me well enough to say that I might not be what you expected?”

I take a few steps toward her, hoping that she’ll sit outside with me while I eat and we further dispel some of her cop myths. Maybe she’ll even tell me exactly what happened with the Vegas PD.

But she jumps back like I was about to punch her.

I raise my hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m sorry that I scared you. I was just going to ask you to sit outside with me and–”

“I’m going to head to bed,” she repeats. “Have a great night.”

And then she runs upstairs like a monster is chasing her.

Chapter 6

Rebecca

Wyatt’sscheduleisdifficultto keep track of because he never sticks to it. Being a cop isn’t a nine-to-five job, and when he was on days, he never got home on time. Now he’s supposed to be off, but he must be doing overtime or out exploring because he’s gone again.

I’m cleaning the kitchen that doesn’t need to be cleaned when he opens the front door around noon. He’s in street clothes and, holy guacamole, the man makes a pair of jeans look damn good.

It’s hot and sunny today, and he’s wearing a tank top that shows off the sharp cuts of his arms and the bulges of muscle in his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, with a smile that could incinerate panties.

“Hi,” I squeak, ordering my eyes to stop tracking all the hard lines and edges of his body.

He tosses a duffel bag in the closet and heads to the kitchen, leaning a hip against the breakfast bar. “I joined the gym.”

“If I worked your hours, I’d spend my days off sleeping and you’re out… lifting heavy shit.”

He chuckles. “My body has regulated to only needing a few hours of sleep every night. And I like lifting heavy shit.”

“You mean, you’ve been before?”

I’m trying to make a joke, but I’m so out of practice that my delivery is all wrong. I sound dead serious or, worse, sarcastic. I wish that I could start this entire interaction over again or maybe call a hotline that lets you practice talking to other humans.

But he picks up the thread as though I’m actually funny. “A time or two.”

I owe him an apology for the other night, and shame burns my cheeks because he’s been so damn nice to me.

I can’t project all my feelings about his profession onto him, at least out loud. I was expecting him to get angry, but he just looked sad and disappointed, which is much worse.

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