“You go ahead and take Gabby out. I’ll stay with Emerson.” I walk to the end of the hall and pitch my keys to Jordy.
Gabby gives me a pouty look. “The cop is here. Can’t you come with?”
“I’m going to help pick up the mess.”
She glances around the room and wrinkles her nose. “Ah, that’s so sweet. Okay, then. The cop says he’s done taking photos in here. Come on.” Gabby takes Jordy’s hand and pulls him to the door. “I need a drink. A real drink. How about we get some stuff to make margaritas? You, me, and Dylan could hang out later. And Emerson. If she wants.”
Jordy’s mouth twitches in a half-smile. “Nice try, short stuff. We’ll go for a burger and shake or something. I’m staying in good with your sister.”
Gabby’s familiarity with Jordy tells me he’s been here before. Now I’m not only jealous of Motorcycle Boy, but Jordy’s joined the list.
“See you two later,” I say to their retreating backs. “Take your time. I’ve got this.”
There’s a lot of chaos in the room besides what I noticed the first time through. Everything is on the floor as if a tornado touched down in the living room. I set a floor lamp upright and head to the kitchen for a trash bag.
Every cabinet door is open with pots and pans spilling out like kitchenware vomit. In this neighborhood, either the burglar was on a high that left him destructive or it’s a deliberate search. Nobody breaks in to steal a Teflon pan. I open the dishwasher and begin loading it with things from the floor.
“I can do that.” Emerson’s voice startles me and I drop a lid.
“There’s plenty to do. We don’t have to fight over the kitchen.” I pick the lid up, place it in the dishwasher and look around to see if she’s alone. “He gone?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll do this. You take another room.” I open the cabinet underneath the sink to find the stuff for washing dishes.
“Okay.” Emerson stands with both hands braced on her hips, staring at the wall.
There’s not a doubt in my mind that she’s upset. Her face is too blank. I stop what I’m doing and take the few steps to stand in front of her.
Her eyebrows lower, a thunderstorm of emotion in the creasing line it forms between them. I reach up and pretend to move her hair from her forehead, tracing the line of worry, feeling her satiny skin. “You don’t have to be tough all the time.”
“Yeah, I do.” She gives me a real smile and licks her lips. “I know you guys get off on that damsel-in-distress crap, but I just can’t be that.”
“Understood. I’m not here to rescue you. I’m here to be your friend.” I step closer and her eyes narrow. I recognize the scent of Emerson’s perfume or body wash or maybe just her skin. Maybe she was born with a smell that makes me want to rub all over her like a cat.
“You’re doing...the kitchen. Right?” Emerson makes the words sound like a proposition.
“I can. Or I can help you in the room you want to tackle.”
“Oh. Okay.” Her gaze darts from my eyes to my mouth.
I close the distance between us and fold her into my arms. Her forehead rests on my shoulder. She’s not pulling away and I revel in the feel of her body.
“They probably killed my plants,” she murmurs.
“Yeah. I noticed.” I rub her back in a small circle between her shoulders. “I’ll help you get them back into the dirt. Maybe they’re not dead.” I know nothing about plants, but the comment must’ve been the right thing to say because she nods.
“I’m sick from thinking about what would’ve happened if Gabby’d been home.”
I’m only grateful Emerson wasn’t at home. What if she’d been here? “How did the person get in?”
“Don’t know. Key, maybe.”
I hold her tighter. The last thing I want is for her to see the worry on my face. “Who has keys?”
She stiffens. “I haven’t been giving them out, but I doubt they change the locks every time someone new moves in.”
I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. “Okay. Then the police will check the list of former tenants.”
“Doubt it. Do you think I’m high on their list of crimes to solve?” There’s an acrid quality to her voice.
“We have to get the locks changed. I’ll call a locksmith. Right now.”
“I don’t know if I can do that. My landlady has rules—”
I pull back and put my hands on her shoulders so I can look at her. “Screw what someone else says. You can tell her I did it. You tell her the police said to do it. I don’t care what you tell her, but it’s getting done. Tonight.”
Emerson doesn’t answer. Damn if she isn’t looking at my mouth again. If she doesn’t stop, I’m going to kiss her whether this is the right time or not.
She nods. “Yes. You’re right. I’ll pay you back for a locksmith. Okay?”
I rub her upper arms. “Good. I’ll call now.”
“Thanks,” she says, and extracts herself from my hold.
Her silky skin is addictive. I miss the feel of it the second she steps away. The absence is so defined and intense that I’m shaken. I pivot away from her and pull out my phone, afraid that my face might show some kind of weird emotion I can’t put my finger on. “I’ll help you with the living room as soon as I call.”
It’s a relief she didn’t argue like she had about the tire. The tire. The damn tire. Toby said someone cut Emerson’s tire. This place is trashed, not burgled.
I’m glad when she walks away and I can put my focus on getting the locksmith. It takes five minutes to arrange for a twenty-four hour service to come out. The guy charges extra since it’s after hours, but Emerson doesn’t have to know since I asked that they send the bill to me. I grab a broom from the closet and head for the front room.
Emerson’s bent over a picture frame, picking up the pieces of glass. “Assholes.”
I move close with the broom. “I’ll get the glass. You’re going to—”
“Ouch.” She drops the sliver and blood appears on her fingertip.
I lay the broom on the floor and move to take her hand. “Let me see.”
Instead of doing as I ask, she dodges me and places her finger in her mouth, sucking on it. Holy hell.
“I want to know how bad it’s cut.” My voice sounds strained and there’s no way she doesn’t know why.
She holds out her hand to me. “It’s fine. See?” She offers her finger as evidence. It isn’t bleeding anymore.
I take it and examine the finger. “Small cut.” I bring her finger to my lips and kiss it. “Be careful.”
Her face flushes and she jerks her hand back. “Friends don’t kiss boo-boos.”
I give her a raised brow and smirk. “Sorry.” Friends don’t give friends hard-ons.
“You don’t know how to do the friend thing, do you?” She grabs the broom and stands. “That’s a rhetorical question. No need to answer.”
She sweeps the glass into a pile. When I don’t answer, she looks up. “What are you smiling about?”