The Thing About Love

  John shook his head. Here he was, trying to do a nice thing, and bam, he got smacked upside the head with the sauciness anyway. “Just to clarify, are you trying to get under my skin as much as possible, or is it simply an inherent talent of yours?”

  “Probably a little of both.”

  He grunted, having suspected as much, and focused on the road as he changed lanes. A few moments later, he glanced over and saw her smiling as she looked out the window.

  Aware that his eyes were lingering again, he turned back to the road. “So, about this research . . . to save time, why don’t we make a working dinner of it?”

  She checked her watch. “Actually, I was going to suggest the same thing.” She shot him a sideways glance. “We’d have to order room service, obviously.”

  Yes, that had been implicit in his suggestion. After all, two undercover agents involved in a covert investigation into the city’s mayor could hardly pull out their laptops in the middle of a restaurant and start talking shop.

  Which left John with only one question.

  “Your room or mine?”

  12

  Having changed into a casual top and jeans, Jessica scurried around the hotel room, putting away all personal items. She shoved her suitcase into the closet, along with the fuzzy purple slippers she always traveled with because she didn’t like walking around barefoot in hotels. Then she canvassed the room one more time, just to be sure.

  All clear.

  She checked her watch and saw that she had two minutes. Good. Just enough time to catch her breath, get her game face on, and calm the butterflies that had been fluttering around her stomach every time she thought of John being in her hotel room.

  Your room or mine?

  It was ridiculous that she was even thinking about this. She was an undercover agent, he was an undercover agent, and in that line of work one quickly got used to meeting behind closed doors. Given the disparity in gender among special agents, she almost always worked with men, and not once had she ever thought twice about being alone with a male agent in a situation that, under different circumstances, could be construed as intimate.

  Then again, none of those male agents had been John.

  It was the same problem she’d had at the Academy; she just kept . . . noticing things about him. Like the fact that he was actually a pretty darn good partner: quick-thinking and decisive, but never overbearing or dismissive of her ideas. Or the controlled, smooth way he walked with just the right amount of swagger. Or how confident and prepared he was, despite the fact that this sting operation was a far cry from his usual fare on the organized crime squad.

  Or the fact that he also happened to be stupidly hot.

  That tailored suit he was wearing hardly helped the situation. Seeing him all buttoned up and businesslike was oddly quite provocative. Having witnessed John firsthand in a sweaty T-shirt and gym shorts at the Academy, she knew exactly what he had going on underneath that suit and tie—and it was nothing short of hard, sculpted perfection. There’d been a moment earlier, in the car, when he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves and the mere sight of his forearms had her nearly blushing.

  Seriously. His forearms.

  Thankfully, he hadn’t seemed to notice that she was noticing these things. And she had every intention of keeping it that way. She had a job to do here, and ogling her partner’s bare body parts wasn’t part of the assignment her boss had given her. Most unfortunately.

  A knock on her hotel room door interrupted her thoughts. Feeling better now that she’d resolved these things in her mind, she glimpsed through the peephole and then opened the door.

  John stood there, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that stretched tight across his toned chest and broad shoulders and showed off what had to be the sexiest biceps she’d ever seen.

  Okay, she took it back: He could put the suit and tie back on. Or perhaps a baggy, shapeless hoodie. Maybe some sort of head-to-toe rain slicker. Because now there was more tanned skin, and more muscles, and suddenly her inner pragmatic voice—the one that had previously been telling her not to notice these things—was holding up its hands in surrender. Yeah, even I’ve got nothing in response to that.

  His eyes moved over her, his voice low enough so only she could hear. “You’re wearing jeans. Those sophisticates on your squad would have your badge if they saw this.”

  Ah, good. He was annoying her already. Just like that, they were back on course. “I’ll have to trust you to keep my secret,” she said dryly, stepping back so he could come inside. She closed the door behind him and handed him the room service menu. “Let me know what you want and I’ll call in the order.”

  Once that was out of the way, they got down to business. Her room came with a small kitchenette, and next to that was a table and chairs where they could work. Being only a two-person table, it was a tight fit, with the backs of their laptops touching each other.

  “I spoke to Leavitt about sending us the real estate listings for other properties that Dave and Ashley might’ve considered as potential locations for their restaurant,” John said. “He said he’d e-mail those to us within the hour.”

  Jessica nodded. This was another detail in the cover story that she and John had agreed felt thin. On the off chance Blair inquired about other possible locations they’d looked at for their restaurant, they wanted to know what else was on the market. “Good. Thanks.”

  Getting comfortable in front of her laptop, she tucked her legs underneath her. “So. Hot restaurant trends.” After running a Google search, she scrolled through the results while absentmindedly chewing on the end of her pen. “Ah. Here’s something interesting . . .”

  Peering up from her laptop, she trailed off when she noticed that John was staring at her.

  Or, more specifically, at her mouth.

  Blushing, she stopped chewing the pen and put it down. Bad habit, she knew. “This article says that ‘upscale family dining’ is on the rise. Maybe that’s something we can work with.” Continuing on with her research, she jotted down some notes on the hotel notepad she’d swiped from her nightstand. She was reading an article by some supposed food expert who proclaimed that “scrambled eggs” were one of this year’s hottest trends (as opposed to last year, when they were so passé?) and was about to make a joke about that when John’s voice cut across the table.

  “Do you have to do that with the pen? It’s distracting,” he said, with an edge to his voice.

  Oops. She hadn’t even realized she’d had the tip in her mouth again. “Sorry. I have a slight oral fixation.” Or so her mother, the psychologist, was always telling her. Sweetie, it’s a stress reliever. Try uncovering the source of the stress, instead of gnawing away at your problems.

  “An oral fixation,” John repeated.

  His jaw twitched.

  She shrugged matter-of-factly. “That’s what it’s called.”

  He looked at her for another moment, then turned back to his laptop and began typing furiously.

  Okay. Somebody seemed to be in a bit of a mood.

  Their food arrived a half hour later. While eating dinner, they decided on a concept that Ashley and Dave were considering for their second Jacksonville restaurant project: a neighborhood farm-to-table American bistro that served locally sourced produce and meats and featured a weekend brunch that offered a rotating daily special of—wait for it—gourmet scrambled eggs.

  “You’re so proud of that detail,” John said, before taking a bite of his blackened fish tacos.

  Jessica smiled as she spread more mayo on her club sandwich. Actually, yes, she was. “I hear they’re all the rage these days.” As she uncrossed her legs to sit more upright, her right leg brushed alongside John’s underneath the table.

  A flash of heat spread low across her stomach.

  “Sorry.” She adjusted her position in the chair to put more space between
them.

  “No problem.” He continued eating, suddenly seeming very interested in whatever he was reading on his laptop.

  For Pete’s sake, she was acting like she’d never been around an attractive man before. Her ex-husband, quite cute in his own right, was a film producer; she’d been to numerous parties and events with some of the most famous, best-looking actors in the business. Spend any length of time in Hollywood and hotness became as much a part of the scenery as palm trees. But one accidental touch of John Shepherd’s leg and she was as flustered as a preteen at a Justin Bieber concert.

  Get it together, Harlow. Focus on the assignment.

  Fortunately, Leavitt’s e-mail arrived while they were eating, keeping them busy with several real estate listings they needed to review. While perusing the photos of one of the properties, Jessica pulled out the bobby pins she’d used to secure her hair. The darn things had been digging into her scalp all day.

  “I realize that Chicago is a pretty expensive city to live in, but can you believe how cheap—” John paused as Jessica’s hair fell around her shoulders, wavy and wild from being in the bun all day. He cleared his throat and continued. “—how cheap some of these properties are?”

  “I know. You can buy a building big enough to fit an entire restaurant for less than I paid for my one-bedroom condo.” She was running her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it, when her cell phone chimed with a new text message—her personal phone, not the burner she’d been given for the assignment. A few seconds later, it chimed a second time.

  “Excuse me.” She got up from the table and went to the nightstand, where her cell phone lay. As she picked it up, it chimed with yet another message.

  My guy says you haven’t texted him yet, her brother wrote. Did I mention the Maserati?

  Jessica sighed as she scrolled through the messages. Not this again.

  Only six times, was the quick retort from her sister. Jess—just come to the gym with me. Once you see my guy in his workout clothes, you won’t give a crap about some stupid car.

  Says the woman whose wife drives an Audi R8, Finn quipped.

  Before Jessica could even jump into the fray, her phone vibrated with a smug reply from Maya.

  And looks damn good in it.

  Shaking her head, Jessica typed her reply. She loved her brother and sister, and knew they were just feeling protective and looking out for her postdivorce—a fact she found a bit amusing since she carried a Glock and could drop-kick them both to the floor should the mood ever arise. But sometimes, it was exhausting being the “plus one” to the conversation while they did their twin thing.

  In the middle of something right now, she wrote.

  Naturally, her sister was all over that. Ooh . . . something risqué?

  Please don’t answer that, her brother texted immediately.

  Jessica stole a quick glance at John. His perfect biceps tightened gloriously as he took a sip from the bottled beer he’d ordered through room service.

  She swallowed, her mouth suddenly having gone dry. It’s a work thing, she told her brother and sister. Now stop texting me before you blow my cover and get me shot.

  Her phone went dead silent.

  She smiled. After waiting a few moments, she decided to put them out of their misery. Just a little FBI humor, guys.

  Their responses came fast and furious.

  You SUCK. I was freaking out.

  What he said.

  Jessica chuckled as she walked across the room and retook her seat at the table. Eh, it served them right. Now maybe they’d back off with their plans to set her up on a date. Not that she wouldn’t be interested down the road, but right now she needed to settle into single life at her own pace. Heck, the ink was barely dry on her divorce papers.

  John raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

  “Hmm?” She gestured to the phone. “Oh yeah, everything’s fine.”

  “Boyfriend checking up on you?” he asked lightly.

  Boyfriend? Ha—that was a good one. “No, just my brother and sister.”

  He nodded, then took another sip of his beer. “So . . . is there a boyfriend?” He leaned back in his chair, his tone casual. “You weren’t wearing a ring around the office, so I’m guessing there’s no husband.”

  That hit a little close to home—not that she blamed John for asking. They were partners now; frankly, it would be weird if they didn’t talk occasionally about their personal lives. “No boyfriend.” She paused. “There was a husband. But he and I finalized our divorce a week ago.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  She smiled slightly at that. “Yes, you did.”

  His lips curved in acknowledgment, and then his expression turned more serious. “Is that why you left Los Angeles?”

  She shrugged, taking a sip of wine and setting the glass on the table next to her laptop. “It seemed like a good time for a fresh start.” Not a fan of being in the hot seat, she used humor to deflect and turn the conversation around to him. “What about you? Girlfriend? Wife? Kids? Perhaps a gaggle of towheaded, extra-large boys who already excel at sports and know how to make fire with the ass end of a lightning bug?”

  He laughed at that—a genuine laugh this time, as opposed to the wry mock-chuckles she was used to hearing. “Guess I missed the day they taught us that at Ranger school.” He toyed with his beer bottle. “Nah . . . no wife or kids. There was a girlfriend. But she and I broke up a few weeks ago.”

  Judging from his tense body language, Jessica sensed there was a story. “That’s when you tried out for HRT.”

  “I guess it seemed like a good time for a fresh start.”

  She half smiled at that. Fair enough.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment, their personal revelations seeming to hang in the air between them. To cover, Jessica took another sip of wine and then turned back to work. “So, where are we with the property listings Leavitt sent us?” Checking the e-mail the agent had sent her and John earlier, she set the wineglass down on the edge of the table.

  Apparently, too close to the edge.

  The glass tipped and fell, shattering as it hit the tiled floor of the kitchenette area. Red wine splattered across the floor and the cabinets.

  “Shit.” She sprang out of her chair, as did John.

  Embarrassed by her boneheaded move, and probably moving too hastily, she picked up one of the larger shards of glass and sliced her finger. She swore under her breath as blood flowed from the cut.

  Crouched next to her on floor, John looked over and frowned. “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s fine.” Not wanting to get blood everywhere, she went to the kitchenette sink and ran some cold water over the wound.

  John was on his feet, coming over to examine her finger. “Let me see.”

  “Really, it’s fine.”

  “Let me see,” he repeated, more firmly. Without further discussion, he took her hand out of the water, holding it in his palm so he could get a better look.

  After the chill of the water, his hand, slightly rough, wrapped like a warm blanket around hers.

  “You don’t think I’ll need stitches, do you?” Their heads nearly touched as they examined the cut. Jessica peered up and realized her mouth was just inches from his.

  Goddamn if his lips weren’t as perfect as the rest of him.

  She blinked, snapping out of it when John moved her hand back into the cold water.

  “Let’s see how quickly it stops bleeding.” He grabbed some paper towels from the kitchenette counter and folded them over. After shutting off the water, he took her hand again and covered the wound with the paper towels, using his other hand to apply pressure.

  Jessica glanced up, something softening inside her as she watched him work.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked.

  Her
own voice was husky. “Not much.”

  “The illustrious Jessica Harlow, taken down by a wineglass.” He pointed, and his tone turned firm again. “Hold the paper towels exactly like that, until I say otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled sweetly when he gave her a look. Then her smile turned to a frown of protest when he grabbed more paper towels and started cleaning up the mess on the floor. “John . . . you don’t have to do that.”

  “I think it’s best if my partner has all her fingers for our sting op tomorrow.”

  Ha ha. She stood there, feeling useless as he picked up the remaining glass and wiped up the wine that had splashed across the floor and cabinets.

  He came over to the sink to dampen a few paper towels. “Besides, it’s fun seeing you squirm.”

  She pulled back, not sure what that meant. “Why would I be squirming?”

  “Because you can’t stand accepting help. At least not from me.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed. “When have I ever had any problem accepting help from you? And don’t tell me”—she paused when he pointed to her hand, indicating that she should apply more pressure to the cut—“that you’re counting all the times you tried to ‘motivate’ me by yelling at me throughout the PT drills. We can agree to disagree on the supposed helpfulness of that technique.”

  He ignored her wry tone. “Actually, I was talking about the day on the shooting range.”

  Oh. That.

  You’re anticipating the blast and flinching when the shot fires. Plus, your stance is wrong.

  She fell quiet, shifting uncomfortably at the memory. As she’d learned from her firearms instructor the following day, John had been completely correct in his assessment. Yes, he’d surprised her when he’d touched her shoulder, and, certainly, the whole problem would’ve been alleviated if he’d just asked if she wanted help. But nevertheless, in hindsight, perhaps her Easy there, big guy comment had been a teensy bit . . . harsh.

  “Careful with the glass,” she warned as he knelt on the floor to finish cleaning. “The little pieces are hard to see.”