The Thing About Love

  And since that was all indeed true, she reached up and put her hand against John’s chest.

  He shifted closer, his lips now mere inches from hers as he spoke in a low tone. “You should stop me.”

  “I know.” She wouldn’t have to push him away; all it would take was one word. But then she felt his heart beating hard and fast beneath her palm, the same as hers, and before she knew what she was doing, she curled her fingers around his shirt and pulled his mouth the rest of the way down to hers.

  Screw it.

  Her control of the situation lasted all of about two seconds. Immediately taking charge—of course he did—John backed her against the wall, trapping her there. With his hands cupping her face, he wound his tongue wickedly around hers as he claimed her mouth.

  She arched against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands moved to her waist, skimming down the sides of her dress and over the curve of her hips.

  “John, we have to . . .” Her voice, a throaty murmur, trailed off as he slid his lips to her neck. God, that felt good. She dug her fingers into his thick hair, so turned on she thought she might melt right there, and impatiently pulled his lips back to hers.

  Their kiss grew hotter and more intense with every breath, and judging from the sizable erection pressing between her legs, John was every bit as turned on as she was. Acting on instinct, she reached for the lapels of his suit jacket, ready to shove it off, just as she felt one of his hands part the slit of her dress.

  She moaned softly when his fingers slid up her thigh.

  There was a low sound deep in his throat, as his mouth covered hers again. They began to move with an almost feverish urgency as—

  A phone rang.

  No.

  They both froze at the sound, as reality quickly set in.

  “Is that your burner?” Her lips hovered just inches from his.

  John’s eyes closed briefly. “No. It’s my cell.”

  Something seemed to pass between them, but then the phone rang again and the moment just . . . slipped away.

  Duty called.

  Jessica slid out from her trapped position against the wall and adjusted the skirt of her dress.

  “Jessica,” John said, from behind her.

  Needing a moment to collect herself, she took a deep breath and then turned to face John. “You should get that,” she said calmly, pointing to his phone on the desk.

  John studied her for a moment. Yes, fine, she was trying to hold her internal freak-out at bay, because kissing the man acting as her partner—no less, her partner in the first undercover investigation she’d been assigned since transferring to her new office—most definitely had not been on the agenda. While there was no express policy prohibiting FBI agents from hooking up, even while working undercover, she, personally, had always adhered to the Don’t shit where you eat school of thought. And in the six years she’d spent in the Los Angeles office, she’d never once been tempted to break her own standards.

  But a mere thirty-six hours with John Shepherd, and she’d been ready to climb the man like a tree.

  Internal freak-out commencing in three . . . two . . . one.

  O.

  M.

  G.

  John’s phone continued to ring, and he walked over to the desk and grabbed it.

  He cleared his throat before answering. “Shepherd.” He paused, his tone turning more colloquial. “Leavitt . . . what’s the word?” He met Jessica’s gaze. “Sure—try patching Jessica in.”

  They both waited while Leavitt tried to reach Jessica on her cell phone—which, obviously, was back in her hotel room, where she was supposed to be right now, drinking her celebratory glass of wine, instead of being here, with John, having just kissed the man like the world was about to end.

  After what felt like an eternity, Leavitt finally gave up.

  “No problem. I can fill her in when I see her,” John told him, playing innocent on his end of the conversation. “So what did Morano say when he checked in?”

  Jessica took a seat on the bed, watching as John listened to the other agent. His shirt gaped open at the chest, having become partially unbuttoned in the fray. And his left cheek bore a red scratch that she suspected was from the Band-Aid on her finger.

  “We’re thinking early-to-mid next week for that?” John locked eyes with her. “I don’t want to speak definitively for Jessica without talking to her first, but we both understand the need to keep the momentum going on this. I’m sure we can make something work.” He paused. “Of course. Will do.”

  He hung up the phone and gave Jessica the update. “Morano says that Blair bought it all. He’s already bragging about how he could make our problems go away with one phone call to some buddy of his on the Land Use Committee. Leavitt anticipates that Blair will give Morano the go-ahead to set up another meeting sometime in the next couple of days.”

  She nodded. “I heard Leavitt ask about early-to-mid next week. I can be back in Jacksonville then.”

  “He also asked that I pass along to you his gratitude for a job well done. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to reach you again tonight, just to tell you himself.”

  An awkward silence fell between them.

  “Don’t freak out, Jessica,” John finally said.

  His knowing—and slightly amused—tone snapped her out of her haze. It was one thing for her to know that she was feeling, perhaps, a teeny-tiny bit caught off guard by their kiss. But as a matter of female pride, she refused to let him see that.

  She who nearly climbeth the man like a tree must owneth it.

  Or something like that, whatever.

  She met his gaze. “I’m not freaking out.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and simply waited.

  “Are you freaking out?” she asked.

  “Hell, yes. I just fooled around with someone on the public corruption squad. My reputation as a badass might never recover from this.”

  She gave him a look.

  “Give it time.” He grinned cheekily. “That joke’s going to seem a lot funnier tomorrow.”

  And despite everything . . . she caught herself fighting back a smile.

  “Ah, there we go,” he said. “Now all we need is one of your signature saucy comments and everything will be right as rain.”

  She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. “I can’t believe I kissed you.”

  “Please. I can’t believe I kissed you.” He walked over to the bed and sat down next to her. For a moment, she found herself thinking that it was kind of sweet how he was deliberately keeping things light to make this less awkward. Then she brushed that aside, realizing that this was hardly the time for sentimental thoughts.

  First things first; she needed to make sure that their working relationship remained solid.

  “So,” she said leadingly.

  “So.”

  All right, fine, she would be the first one to come out and say it. They were both adults here, and professionals; they knew the score. “Well. As unexpectedly hot as that was”—she pointed to the place on the wall where they’d kissed—“I think we both know it’s best if it doesn’t happen again.”

  He cocked his head, looking at her for a moment. “You’re probably right.”

  Although his expression remained unchanged, and his tone was casual, something about the way he paused made her, well, pause. Admittedly, there was a physical attraction between them—and, if she was being honest with herself, probably some pent-up sexual tension that stemmed from the twenty-one weeks they’d spent fighting each other at the Academy. But, obviously, that was all it was. She wasn’t looking to get romantically involved with another agent; she’d just transferred to the Chicago office a mere ten days ago and had no interest in being the target of that kind of gossip. What had happened between her and John h
ad been simply a crazy impulse, brought on by adrenaline and the heat of the moment. And he knew that, too.

  Didn’t he . . . ?

  Her inner pragmatic voice did a face-palm.

  And this is why we don’t hook up with other agents. Never dip your pen in the company inkwell. Don’t get your nookie where you get your cookies. Don’t fish off the company pier. Don’t—

  Thanks, yes, she got the point.

  Moving into damage-control mode, she was quick to explain. “I just think, with us having to work so closely together undercover, that it would be unwise for us to get involved in any sort of . . . emotional entanglement.” Oh shit, please don’t let this get awkward. “Plus, on a personal level, I just finalized my divorce, and I wasn’t looking to dive right away into any sort of serious—”

  With an amused expression, he held up a hand to stop her. “I appreciate the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech, Harlow. Truly. But I wasn’t exactly about to get down on one knee here. In addition to having just got out of a long-term relationship myself, there’s a good chance I’m moving to Virginia next month.”

  Oh. Sure, she’d completely forgotten about that. If he made the Hostage Rescue Team, he’d be heading back to Quantico.

  For good this time.

  Shoving aside a strange feeling inside her gut, she smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I just thought I saw you hesitate there.”

  “I’m a single guy. Generally speaking, we like to review all other options before ever willfully taking the possibility of sex off the table.”

  Gotcha. Of course that was all it was. And that was good—great, actually. “Okay, so we’re on the same page, then.” She exhaled. For a moment there, she’d started to think . . . well, obviously it didn’t matter now.

  “We’re on the same page.” John leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his long, built frame on the bed. “Assuming, that is, you don’t plan to make another move on me.”

  Ah . . . more revisionist history. “That’s not exactly how I remember it happening, Shepherd. You moved in on me.”

  “After you opened the door with that ‘It could be something more’ line.”

  She stood up from the bed. “You know, as much as I’d love to do the he-said-she-said postgame analysis, it’s getting late and we have an early flight tomorrow.”

  “I believe that’s code for ‘I know you’re right, John, so I’m inventing an excuse to avoid having to admit it.’” He winked at her.

  Frustrating man, looking so smug and confident and . . . seriously, did he have to be sprawled across the bed like that, with his shirt half unbuttoned, and those stupid, gorgeous blue eyes? And that body. My God, he might as well have a flashing neon sign over him: Awesome sexy times! Available here!

  Refusing to take his bait, she opened the door. “Let’s meet in the lobby at six A.M. That’ll give us plenty of time to get to the airport, even if we hit traffic on the way. Good night, Dave,” she added sweetly, being careful just in case anyone was passing by in the hallway.

  Without waiting for a reply, she ever-so-coolly made her exit. She headed down the hallway that led out of the building, getting halfway to the exit before she realized.

  Dammit.

  Turning on her heel, she went back and found John standing in the doorway to his room, leaning against the doorjamb.

  He dangled her purse from one finger, whistling nonchalantly.

  She stopped in front of him, and he handed the purse over.

  “Don’t even say it,” she warned.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Good night, Ashley.”

  Well, at least he was irritating her again.

  Given the circumstances, she’d take it.

  15

  Friday evening after work, John pit-stopped at the loft condo in Bucktown he was renting. A small studio unit with a flyaway kitchen and a tiny bathroom, the place had zero bells and whistles, but it was clean and had an in-unit washer and dryer.

  Between the Army and HRT Selection, he’d bunked in far worse conditions.

  After driving around the neighborhood for twenty minutes, he found a parking spot on the street three blocks away. Carrying both his briefcase and his suitcase from the Jacksonville trip, he stopped off at his mailbox before heading up to the second floor.

  Included among the junk mail and bills was a large envelope from Alicia.

  He tucked it under his arm and carried his stuff up the stairs. After letting himself into the loft and dumping the briefcase on the pull-out couch that doubled as his bed, he shook the envelope from Alicia and heard paper sliding around inside.

  A week ago, she’d sent an e-mail asking for his address so she could forward him some mail that had been delivered to their old place. Not wanting to encourage further communication, his response to her had been brief. Now, as he opened the envelope, he hoped he wouldn’t find some note, or another apology, that she’d slipped in with the mail. These last few weeks, between his stint at Quantico and the investigation down in Jacksonville, he’d been able to keep his mind off the situation with Alicia and Rob, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  He got lucky.

  No note, no apology, not even so much as a Post-it saying, Here’s your mail—A, using her initial as a signature, the way she used to do whenever she left him a note in their apartment. He’d always found that funny, that she bothered to sign them at all, because it wasn’t like anyone else would be leaving him a Post-it reminding him that she would be home late that evening because she had a dentist appointment, and could he please remind the landlord to fix the burned-out light by the garage door?

  XOXO—A, she’d write, at the end of every single one of those damn notes.

  Crumpling the envelope into a ball, he tossed it into the garbage and then unpacked his suitcase. After changing into jeans and a short-sleeve henley that he left untucked to cover his Glock, he grabbed the suits he’d worn in Jacksonville and dropped them off at the dry cleaner around the corner.

  From there, he hailed a cab and gave the driver the address for Sheridan’s Pub, where he was meeting his friend Wes. Located on the north side and managed by his brother, the place had been one of John’s standard hangouts for years.

  The pub had a library-like decor, with dark hardwood, built-in bookshelves, and warm, ambient light. It was crowded that evening, and John looked around before he spotted Wes sitting on the far side of the bar.

  “Hey, there he is,” Wes said, grinning when John walked up.

  John pointed to the four glasses lined up in front of Wes. “Did you save any for the rest of us?”

  “Your brother insisted I try this new whiskey flight they just rolled out.”

  “Is it any good?”

  A woman’s voice cut into their conversation. “Very good. And I’d say that even if your brother wasn’t paying me to.” Nadia, the bartender, slid a napkin in front of John. “Welcome back. Nate says you’ve been at Quantico for some kind of superhero role-playing camp.”

  That brother of his . . . always a kidder. “Something like that. Is he working tonight?”

  “He’s around,” Nadia said.

  FBI agents weren’t supposed to get intoxicated while carrying, so John passed on the whiskey flight and ordered a Koval bourbon instead.

  “So? How was it?” Wes asked after Nadia walked away to grab them some dinner menus.

  John cocked his head. “How was what?”

  “Superhero camp. The Hostage and Rescue Team tryouts.”

  Had it really been that long since he and Wes had hung out? John mentally scrolled back and realized that the last time they’d seen each other had been the day Wes had helped him move his furniture out of his and Alicia’s apartment.

  Not exactly a jubilant occasion, that.

  “It’s just ‘Hostage Rescue Team.’ No and. They don’t make us take
the people captive first before rescuing them,” John joked.

  “That’s funny. Speaking of funny things, what’s with the new look?” Wes nodded at John’s shorter hairstyle.

  “It’s for an undercover investigation.”

  “Ah. And judging from the hair product and clean-shaven jaw, I’m guessing you’re . . . infiltrating a rogue group of men’s cologne models?”

  And so it went. For the next hour, they joked around and gave each other shit as they caught up over bourbon and meat loaf sandwiches, another new item on the menu that Nate talked them into. John regaled Wes with stories about HRT tryouts, and Wes told him about work and how his girlfriend, Claire, wanted them to run a marathon together.

  John chuckled. “You still haven’t told her that you hate running?” That had been Wes’s “in” when he’d first met Claire at a party and had hit on her: She’d mentioned she was an avid runner, so he’d feigned an interest and had suggested they go jogging together sometime. A year later, he still hadn’t figured out how to extract himself from the white lie.

  “Well, I can’t tell her now. I’m in too deep,” Wes said.

  “True. On the upside, after running twenty-six miles, the 10K races she’s always signing you up for will seem like a piece of cake,” John said.

  “Twenty-six miles . . . who the hell thinks that’s fun?” Wes demanded to know.

  “Apparently, you do.”

  “Here’s the other problem: The marathon training group she wants us to join does their long runs early on Sunday mornings.” Wes gestured between him and John. “And since we have flag football on Saturdays starting in September . . .” He paused, shifting in his chair. “That, uh, means no more sleeping in either weekend day.”

  An uncomfortable pause fell between them.

  Well, here they were.

  All evening, John had been hoping to skirt by without any reference to his former “friends.” Every fall, he, Wes, Rob, Lucas, and Matt played in a touch football league on Saturday mornings in Lincoln Park, and then they’d grab lunch at Sheridan’s and watch college football on the pub’s big-screen TVs. It was something John looked forward to every year: the good-natured competitiveness, getting sweaty in the crisp autumn air, and the easy camaraderie between old friends.