Page 9 of Sizzling Desire

The pieces click together in my head, like puzzle fragments forming an ominous picture. “So, what are we looking at here? Insurance fraud? Something bigger?”

He pauses, his voice dropping an octave. “It might be bigger. There’s a chance it’s tied to the Torres crew.”

Vincent Torres. That name lands like a blow to the gut. Drug cartel, gunrunner, criminal mastermind. He’s been a ghost, always one step ahead of the law, and if his crew’s dabbling in arson now, we’re looking at a whole new level of chaos.

“Torres?” I say, my voice sharp. “You’re sure?”

“No,” Chance admits. “It’s just whispers and gut instinct right now, but if he’s involved, these fires could be part of something a lot worse than insurance scams. Could be a warning. Could be a distraction. Hell, it could be anything.”

I let out a long breath, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling. Torres doesn’t play games, he plays war. If he’s in this, we’re already behind.

“Send me what you’ve got,” I say firmly. “I’ll help you dig into it, but Chance... if this is Torres, we need to tread carefully. This guy doesn’t leave loose ends.”

“I know,” Chance replies, his tone somber. “That’s why I need your help. I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t,” I assure him. “We’ll figure it out.”

We hang up, and I sit there for a moment, staring at the phone in my hand. The fires, the whispers about Torres, the possibility of something bigger—it’s a lot to process.

My laptop hums to life as I pull up my email, waiting for Chance to send over the files. I’ve handled arson cases before, but this feels different. Bigger. Messier.

And if Torres is involved? It’s about to get a hell of a lot worse.

Chapter 3

Grace

Istare at the papers scattered across my desk, trying to force my brain to focus. The words blur together, just a sea of numbers and letters that refuse to form any sense. But it’s not the spreadsheet’s fault. No, the real culprit is the man I can’t seem to get out of my head. Kane Mitchell.

His name echoes in my thoughts like a bad song I can’t stop humming. It’s been a week—a whole damn week—since that night at Hooplas, and I’m no closer to shaking the memories than I was the morning after. His hands on me, his mouth claiming mine, the heat between us that set my whole world on fire—it’s all still so vivid, it might as well be happening right now.

And I hate it.

I tap my pen against the desk, the sharp rhythm doing nothing to drown out the noise in my head. I’m supposed to be reviewing accounts, figuring out some nonsense for my boss, but every time I glance at the screen, all I see is him. That smug grin, the one he gave me right before everything spiraled out of control.

This never happened. That’s what I told him. Like saying it out loud could erase the whole thing. But it did happen, andno amount of pretending will change that. My body remembers—every single inch of it remembers the way his hands felt, the way he made me feel like I was unraveling and holding on all at once.

“Dammit,” I mutter, tossing the pen down in frustration. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour, and I’ve accomplished absolutely nothing.

I stand, pacing the length of my office, hoping movement will somehow clear my head. But the second I stop; my mind drags me right back to him. To us. To that night. Why did it have to be him? Of all the men in Hibiscus Harbor—hell, of all the men in the world—why did it have to be Kane Mitchell?

The guy has been a pain in my ass since the moment we met. He thrives on getting under my skin, on pushing every button I have until I’m ready to explode. And somehow, I let him do just that—only instead of blowing up, I fell apart. Right there on a damn conference table.

I rub my temples, trying to massage away the pounding ache that’s been building there. This is supposed to be the time I focus on work, on moving forward, on not thinking about Kane. But no matter how hard I try, every road leads right back to him.

My phone buzzes on the desk, jolting me out of my thoughts. I grab it, relieved for the distraction, and see Kate’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hey, you,” I say, forcing a brightness into my voice that I don’t really feel.

“Grace!” Kate’s voice is a burst of sunshine, as always. “I’ve been meaning to call. Are you free tonight? I’m having a wedding meeting at my shop at seven, and I need my maid of honor!”

I smile despite myself. Kate’s been in full-on bridal mode ever since Hudson proposed, and honestly? I couldn’t behappier for her. She deserves this—the love, the happiness, the fresh start after everything she’s been through.

“Of course,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Kate squeals, her excitement practically vibrating through the phone. “I knew I could count on you. You’re my rock, Grace. Always.”

The warmth in her voice chips away at the tension knotted in my chest, and for a moment, I let myself feel the happiness she’s radiating. “You know I’ll always be here for you. It’s going to be perfect, Kate. You and Hudson? You deserve everything.”

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