Page 20 of Sizzling Desire

I chuckle, even though her deflection twists something in my chest. “Good to know I still have an effect on you.”

She rolls her eyes, pushing the folder toward the edge of the desk. “Is that all? Or are you planning to loiter here all day?”

I push off the desk, taking a step back, but I can’t resist one last jab. “By the way, you look great. Maybe a little tired, though. You should take a break.”

Her eyes flash, and for a moment, I think she might throw something at me. “Get out, Kane.”

I chuckle, raising my hands in mock surrender. “I’m going, I’m going.”

But as I walk out the door, I can’t help glancing back. She’s already looking down at her desk, but the tension in her shoulders hasn’t eased.

Something’s eating at her.

And for reasons I don’t fully understand, I want to know what it is.

I’m halfway down the hall before I let out a slow breath, the air punching out of me like I’ve been holding it hostage.

She is the human embodiment of a live wire, all sharp edges, and electric shocks, and somehow, I keep walking straight into her current like a damn fool.

The satisfaction of watching her squirm when I called her out for being “off” lingers, but it’s tangled up with something else. Frustration, maybe. Because as much as I loved watching her bristle and fire back, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was more beneath her surface today. Something she didn’t want me, or anyone else, to see.

I should let it go. Whatever’s eating at her, it’s not my business, but the memory of her tapping that pen against the desk, her fingers trembling just slightly, won’t let me.

The way her eyes softened for that split second when I asked if she was okay? Yeah, that’s sticking with me too.

I push through the doors to the parking lot, the cool air doing little to clear my head. The satisfaction of our verbal sparring match fizzles out, replaced by the same knot I’ve been carrying around since that night at Hooplas.

Because here’s the thing about Grace, she’s under my skin. It has been for a while now, if I’m being honest, and I’m starting to realize that no matter how much I needle her or how many walls she puts up, I keep coming back for more.

I stop at my truck, leaning against the door, the folder no longer in my hand. It’s not like I planned this visit just to see her. Okay, maybe it’s exactly like that, but the truth is, being around Grace feels like stepping into a fight I can’t win—and I don’t know if I want to.

She’s exhausting, infuriating, maddening…and yet, I’d be lying if I said this isn’t the most alive I’ve felt in years.

I rake a hand through my hair, letting out a low curse. “What the hell are you doing?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered because I already know the truth.

Walking away from Grace today felt like a small victory—watching her fume, knowing I got to her, but it’s a hollow win. Because the second I walked out that door, I was already thinking about the next time I’ll see her. The next excuse I’ll find to get close.

And that realization? It’s like a punch to the gut.

I climb into the truck, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be the guy who keeps chasing after someone who clearly wants nothing to do with me.

But wanting something else and actually doing it are two different things.

No matter how much Grace pisses me off, no matter how many walls she throws up between us, I can’t seem to stay away and that scares the hell out of me.

It’s a few days later and I’m meeting with Chance to interview a potential witness. The moment I step into Hooplas, Chance is right behind me, I can see his nervousness in the case bearing down on him like a lead vest. Fires don’t just start on their own, especially not with the kind of precision we’ve been seeing. There’s a pattern, a methodical approach, and if Chance’s hunch is right, we’re dealing with something far more dangerous than a string of isolated arsons. I’ve been chewing on this for days, but now it’s time to start getting some answers.

We spot the witness we’re meeting sitting in the back, hunched over the table with a beer in his hand. Alan “Moe” Davies, a janitor at one of the abandoned warehouses that went up in flames last week in Cedar Grove, claims he sawsomething suspicious that night. What exactly, though? That’s what we’re here to find out.

“Ready?” Chance mutters, nodding toward Moe.

“Yeah,” I say, though my mind is already half focused on the conversation we’re about to have. “Let’s see what this guy has to say.”

We approach the table, and Moe glances up, his eyes darting between us like he’s not sure if he should stay or bolt.

“Hey, Moe,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “Mind if we sit down?”

---