Page 8 of Concealed

“You don’t have to be sorry, and you can stay as long as you want. I’m going to order that pizza and leave some in the fridge for you, okay?”

I nod, my mind tripping over someone being kind to me. I’m completely unable to think of a suitable response. How sad is that?

“Do you like any weird toppings? Should I order broccoli or some shit, or are you good with meat?”

The laugh that rips from my throat is completely unexpected. I wasn’t sure that I was still capable of it. “I don’t want any shitty broccoli pizza. Meat is just fine.”

“Perfect. Can I have your keys?” he asks. “I’ll leave them and all your stuff in the hallway.”

“Do you need help?”

When he smiles this time, I note that the left side of his mouth tilts slightly higher than the right. Of course, he has straight, white teeth and adorable dimples to match. He’s the poster boy for the hot cop club and probably has badge bunnies on tap.

“Nah, I got you,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

I dig through my purse and find the car keys, reaching out my hand to pass them to him. We have a comically huge void between us, and he slowly closes the distance as though approaching a skittish, wild animal.

Maybe that’s exactly what I am.

When he takes the keys, his fingers brush mine, and a startling jolt moves through me. My gaze is drawn up from the strong column of his throat to his eyes like a magnetic force field.

They’re a warm chocolate brown and etched with a heaping amount of concern.

I blink away a fresh wave of tears. “Thank you for… everything.”

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“You’ve already done more than enough.”

He looks like he wants to hug me, and I’m sure all his protective instincts are flaring at the damsel in distress who is ripe for rescuing. Two types of men become cops: the ones who want to save everyone and be the hero, and the ones who want to abuse their power.

Maybe Wyatt is one of the good ones. But power leads to corruption, and I don’t have time to figure out which cops are good versus bad, which ones will help you, and which ones won’t believe your story.

It’s easier – and safer – not to trust anyone.

“I’m just going to walk past you to go to your car, okay?” Wyatt says.

He thinks I’m going to freak out again if he comes near me, and I wish so badly that I could just be… normal. Just a girl hanging out with a guy. Maybe if I had another life and was another person, I could even joke with him, laugh, or… flirt.

He’s so close now that I can confirm every detail in high definition, and I can’t tear my eyes away from him.

A strong nose that has been broken a time or three.

A clean-shaven, square jaw that would look sexy AF with at least two days of dark stubble.

Thick chestnut hair that’s cut in the short cop-standard style.

Lips that are far too soft and inviting to belong to a man.

Bronzed skin that shows he doesn’t ride a desk and is out on the streets.

He’s even bigger and wider when we’re only steps apart, and all I can think about is how badly this beautiful man could hurt me if he wanted to.

My brain is so messed up.

It’s broken.

I’m broken.

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