Page 30 of The Love Destroyers

He just lifts his eyebrows. His coat is open, I notice, and he’s got to be cold, but he makes no move to close it.

“I’m not that bad at interior decorating,” I say, stalling. If we go upstairs, I’ll need to face everyone. To appear grateful or pissed or…something. I’m both of those things, but I’m also confused, caught in this weird space of feeling too much and not knowing how to categorize any of it. Including my feelings about the man who’s standing beside me and is so tall I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze even though I’ve never been short.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” he says, his lips inching up further.

“Oh, fuck you.” I nudge his arm, feeling the lean muscle under my fingertips.

“We’ve already decided that’s a bad idea,” he tells me, glancing up at the second floor windows of the building. He runs his fingers over his lips as if he’s still imagining he has acigarette there. As if he’s craving something he knows he can’t or shouldn’t have. I understand that better than I’d like.

“Ahorribleidea.”

His gaze finds me as a shit-eating grin stretches across his face. “Doesn’t that kind of make you want to give it a try?”

I’m suddenly fighting the urge to laugh. But I put up the good fight and say, “The last time you were in the same town as Nicole you took off in the middle of the night to get away from her. When did you become best buddies?”

“When she offered me money,” he says casually.

“Bullshit.”

He hooks his hands into his pants pockets. “Okay, Little Rich Girl. Tell me the best things in life are free. I’m all ears.”

He still has a teasing lilt to his voice, but there’s a hard truth behind it—and I feel myself blushing.

“Look I know money’s important. That’s a big part of my job. My old job. Making sure people get their due.” I find myself telling him about helping a stay-at-home mom whose wealthy husband left her for an eighteen-year-old after fifteen years of marriage. He tried to hide the majority of his income, but I tracked down every last penny with the help of a forensic accountant.

“Are there a lot of cases like that?” he asks, instead of making the quip I was expecting.

“Too many,” I say with a sigh, feeling the weight of it. “So yeah, I get it.”

He lets me stew for a few seconds, then nudges my arm. “Didn’t hurt that Nicole said she’d drop the whole thing about my past if I helped out.”

I shake my head. “Ah, the truth comes out.”

I take a step toward the apartment building, but he stops me by wrapping his hand around my forearm, easily engulfing it. I look back at him, my lips parting at the intensity in his eyes.

“I alsowantto help you with this,” he insists, his voice a low rumble.

“Sure you do.”

His lips hitch up at the side. “I mean it. There’s something deeply satisfying about messing with assholes who deserve it. It checks all the boxes for me.”

“Allthe boxes?” I ask, tilting my head.

He shakes his head, his mouth still quirked in that half-smile. Then he gets out his silver lighter and flicks it open, the fire flickering into being.

“So much for quitting,” I comment, annoyed even though I have no right to be. He made me no promises, and if he had, I would have been a fool to believe them.

“I thought you liked playing with fire, Emma,” he says, waggling his brows as he pulls a box of cigarettes out of his back pocket—still holding the flame steady.

I act on instinct, the way I always seem to around him—and reach directly for the lighter. He flicks it shut the second before I grab it from his hand, the metal heated against my skin.

“You gonna steal that too?” he asks, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he studies me with what looks like amusement. The line of his throat is sexier than a throat should be.

I wink at him. “Fuck around and find out.” Then I pocket the lighter and turn back toward the building—and my intervention, I guess.

This time Seamus doesn’t stop me.

My heart is beating hard, my skin so sensitized that when I brush it against the brick siding before opening the door, I feel it everywhere.

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