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South Riverside Plaza, Chicago, Illinois

Britt Rollins was a stalker.

That’s right—a stalker .

He hadn’t set out to be anything of the sort. It had started by happenstance.

You see, a month earlier, he’d made a trip to the Beverly neighborhood in the farthest reaches of South Chicago to buy King Curve Rhino handlebars from a mustachioed dude selling them cheap on Facebook Marketplace.

As was his tendency, Britt had arrived at the rendezvous point early. And since he’d needed something strong and black and packed with caffeine to take the edge off the sharp hangover he’d been sporting thanks to an engagement celebration from the night before—the celebration was for some friends, not for him—he’d stepped into the coffee shop on the corner.

And there she’d been.

The ineffable Julia O’Toole. All five towering feet of her.

Give or take an inch or two.

He’d known she had a bangin’ little bod under her standard-issue pantsuits and crisp, button-down shirts. But he’d been unprepared for… perfection .

As The Commodores sang… Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six. What a winnin’ hand!

Her cutoff jean shorts had passionately hugged her round butt and emphasized her muscular legs. Her ribbed, blue tank top had molded to her breasts and followed the lovely dip of her waist. And her casual plastic flip-flops had highlighted the arches of her dainty feet and the charm of her unpainted toenails.

He’d only ever seen her with her hair pulled back into a ponytail or twisted up into a tight bun. But that day she’d left it loose to hang down her back in a silky sheet.

“Old money blonde.”

That’s how Eliza, the Black Knights’ den mother, on-site chef, and all-around Girl Friday, had described Julia’s hair…that warm, honeyed color somewhere between light brown and dark blond. Considering Eliza came from old money, who was Britt to argue with her assessment?

Anywho…let’s return to the moment I took on the title of Creepy McCreeperson.

Julia had popped the top on her cup of coffee the instant the barista handed it to her. He’d thought she might stroll over to the condiments station to fill her drink with cream and sugar, and he’d been eager to watch the sway of her hips in those Daisy Dukes. But to his disappointment, she’d simply shuffled to the side to allow the next person in line to order before pursing her lips and blowing across the surface of the steaming black liquid like she couldn’t wait to get the contents inside her mouth.

Seeing her lips in that perfect moue had done things to him.

If he’d been one of those cartoon dogs, his eyes would have bulged from his head, and his tongue would have unfurled from his mouth to hit the floor. But since he was just a man, he’d stood there stunned. Jaw agape. Heart pounding. Dick…well…doing decidedly dickish things.

When she had turned in his direction, he could have lifted a hand and said, “Fancy meeting you here, Agent O’Toole.” He could have bobbed his chin and offered her a knowing smile. Hell, he could have shot her a one-finger salute followed by a friendly wink.

All of those things would’ve been normal. Natural. Not stalker-y.

Instead, he’d gone with door number four.

Stepping quickly behind the wide concrete support beam in the center of the room, he’d held his breath as she breezed by him on her way to the front door. He’d felt the air shift as she passed. And his nostrils had flared unwillingly when her perfume's sweet, warm scent wafted over to him.

Thinking back now, he told himself he’d avoided letting her see him because he was a man of secrets—loads of them. And since she was a woman paid by Uncle Sam to uncover secrets, avoiding a run-in with her was instinctual.

Fourteen years of conducting covert operations worldwide had taught him many things. The most important was to trust his gut.

If things had ended there, everything would have been fine. He would have been fine and not have become…well…what he’d become.

Things had not ended there.

Before he’d known what they were doing, his biker boots had followed her out the door. Before he could stop them, his eyes had searched the sidewalk and spotted her hopping into her cherry-red Jeep Wrangler. Before he’d thought to convince them otherwise, his legs had carried him to his tricked-out, custom-made Harley chopper.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

He’d followed her turn-for-turn for five full minutes. When she’d pulled into the lot of a small city park, he’d walked his bike to the opposite curb, cut his engine, and leaned his forearms across his handlebars to watch her leap from her Jeep and be welcomed into the group of people gathered around a picnic table.

He’d known they were her family not because he had much of his own to speak of. But because he had Black Knights Inc.

The men and women who worked at the covert government defense firm that masqueraded behind the facade of a custom motorcycle shop were his siblings by choice instead of by blood. And the children of the OG group—Britt and the five guys who currently ran missions with him were BKI version 2.0—had become Britt’s noisy, oftentimes sticky , honorary nieces and nephews.

Being welcomed in the fold at BKI meant he’d easily recognized as goodhearted sibling rivalry the noggin scrubbing Julia had received from one of the big-shouldered men who’d greeted her. He’d pinpointed the motherly love in the eyes of the older woman who’d hugged her before brushing back a strand of hair from her forehead. And he’d identified the squeals from the crowd of kids who’d swarmed her legs as the excitement of children whose favorite aunt had just arrived.

Forgetting about his hangover, Mr. Mustache, and those sweet handlebars, he had spent the next hour covertly watching the festivities in the park. Smiling as Julia pushed a wild-haired boy with a Bluey Band-Aid on his dirty little knee on the merry-go-round— adorable . Curling his hands into tight fists while she played a rather harrowing game of flag football with her brothers, a group of men twice her size— anxiety-inducing . And sucking in a ragged breath when she wrapped her luscious lips around a hotdog— talk about shwing!

Just that easily, Britt the Stalker had been born.

He might have forgiven himself the voyeurism had that afternoon been the sum of it. But like jumping out of an airplane or hanging off the side of a mountain by a pencil-thin safety line, he'd been hooked once he’d tasted that sweet adrenaline.

Now, he made it a point whenever he was CONUS—military speak for inside the continental U.S.—to get up early and grab the table in the far corner of Peet’s Coffee in South Riverside Plaza because, Monday through Friday, Julia O’Toole came in at precisely seven-thirty A.M. to order her standard cup of no-frills java.

How had he learned this was her pre-work pitstop, you ask?

To his utter shame, he’d followed her home from the park that first day and watched from down the block as she was greeted by two mangy-looking dogs and one loud-mouthed cat. The picture window in the front of her bungalow-style house had afforded him an unencumbered view of the large, gray parrot that had flown from its perch to alight on her shoulder. And when one of the animals had done something to make her smile, when he’d heard her soft laugh drift out through the screen door, he’d been transfixed.

Captivated. Enthralled.

He’d gone back the following morning because he’d told himself if he saw her in her boxy pantsuits, if he caught a glimpse of her badge, if he watched her walk into the FBI building, then the spell she’d cast over him the day before would be broken. He’d told himself if he could be reminded she was Agent O’Toole and not the sweet, Southside girl with a soft spot for rescue animals, he’d be able to go back to not dreaming about her when he was asleep and fantasizing about her when he was awake.

Turns out , he thought now. I lied.

Before she’d made it to the field office on Roosevelt Road, she’d stopped at Peet’s Coffee. And even in her pantsuit, even with her hair pulled tight into a bun and her sidearm poorly concealed in the shoulder harness beneath her jacket, she’d still been…

Julia.

Julia with the kind of face you’d see on the girl next door—the one who always waved as you passed by. Julia with the kind of fresh complexion that was soft and inviting, a natural sort of beauty that needed no enhancement. Julia with that direct, unfaltering gaze…behind which lay a mind as honed and precise as a steel trap.

Far from being freed from the spell she’d cast over him, he’d been hooked.

Hooked on catching a glimpse of her smile. Hooked on hearing the deep, sultry tone of her voice. Hooked on the warm, sweet scent of her perfume that seemed to linger even after she left the room.

Which brings us to this morning and my spot here at the corner table.

He liked the corner table because it was shadowed, hidden behind the condiments station, yet still afforded him a view of the counter, the cashier, and anyone who placed an order.

You know, if he leaned to the side and wasn’t thwarted by an idiot in a three-piece suit standing in front of the jug of cream and checking his phone instead of getting on with it and moving the hell out of the way!

Britt glowered up at the man.

When Mr. Three-Piece felt Brit’s knife-sharp gaze, he quickly filled his cup with cream before scampering away in a pair of wingtips that probably cost more than the custom chrome exhaust Britt had recently installed on his motorcycle.

“Agent O’Toole!” A deep voice broke through the hiss of the barista’s steaming wand and the low hum of conversation emanating from the coffee shop’s many patrons.

Today’s cashier was Britt’s least favorite. Maybe because the asshole had hero hair, and any man who spent that much money on product was automatically suspicious in Britt’s book. Or maybe because the guy’s teeth were so perfectly straight and so blindingly white that Britt felt the need to slide on his sunglasses anytime the dickhead smiled. Or maybe—okay, most likely—because Julia flirted with the twatwaffle.

Case in point…

“Hey you!” Her grin was patently sexy. Britt loathed seeing it aimed at the bastard behind the counter. “Long time, no see.”

“I keep telling you twenty-four hours is an eternity between visits.” Chaz shook his head. Yes, the bastard’s name was Chaz . Oh, the clichés abound! “I get off at noon. Want to meet me for lunch?”

“You know I don’t mix business with pleasure.” Julia’s dark lashes fell to half-mast so her expression became decidedly…bedroom-y.

Britt gripped his mug so hard he was surprised it didn’t shatter in his hands. He wanted to jump up and shout: Can’t you see he’s vain and vapid and sporting a micro-penis?

Okay, so he’d had plenty of observation days to back up his vain and vapid assessment. The micro-penis? Pure speculation.

Or maybe that’s just pure hope.

A guy that good-looking must have at least one physical flaw. The universe believes in balance, right?

“But we don’t work together,” Chaz countered, flashing her a grin that made his dimples wink.

The woman in line behind Julia sighed like an actress in a melodrama, and Britt rolled his eyes so hard that he was surprised they stayed in their sockets.

“In a way we do,” Julia insisted. “You’re the key to my success. Without you fueling me with caffeine, I’d be useless. And since I hunt bad guys for a living, surely you don’t want me off my game.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong.”

Julia cocked her head.

“I definitely want you regardless of your game.”

An evil expression spread over Britt’s face, and at the same time, a blush spread over Julia’s. Her heightened color was accompanied by a dreamy look that alarmed Britt more than if she’d launched a grenade in his direction.

Chaz is that guy , he thought, his jaw grinding so hard it was a miracle his molars didn’t turn to dust. The one begging to have all those pretty teeth rearranged by my fist.

Once again, his legs had a mind of their own. They’d shoved him to a stand before he’d made the conscious decision to move. And since when it came to Julia his ability to control his impulses rested comfortably on the head of a pin, the only thing that stopped him from marching over to the counter and dragging Chaz across it so he could punch the asshat in the peanut pouch was the heavy hand that landed on his shoulder.

“Busted.”

Britt blinked in surprise to find Hewitt Birch standing beside him. His shock was partly because they were miles from the former-menthol-cigarette-factory-turned-custom-motorcycle shop that was their home. Partly because Hew was a recluse—when the guy wasn’t piloting a chopper in a country half a world away, he was in a corner somewhere with his nose buried in a book. But mostly because Britt hadn’t seen Hew come into the coffee shop.

Which meant he’d been so focused on Julia that he’d completely abandoned his training.

“What the hell are you doing on this side of town?” he demanded, feeling a crease form between his eyebrows.

“Watching you watch Agent O’Toole with a broody stare that’s all covetous and hot,” Hew replied in that thick, Downeast Mainer accent that made most folks think he’d been born and raised in Boston.

If Britt had been the blushing sort, he would’ve been red from his toes to the tips of his ears. Since he wasn’t , all he did was retake his seat and sullenly admit, “I’m already hating this conversation, and we’re only one sentence in.”

Hew snorted and grabbed the chair next to Britt, easily lowering his substantial frame into it.

Where Britt was lean and muscular, Hew was big and bulky. They both spent their fair share of time in the BKI outbuilding packed with gym equipment. But Britt chose exercises that honed his agility and endurance while Hew picked up heavy things and put them down again.

“I couldn’t help noticing you’ve spent the last two weeks sneaking out at the crack of dawn to take the train to the other side of the city for a cup of coffee that’s not half as good as the stuff we brew back home.” Hew quirked an eyebrow two shades darker than the auburn hair on his head. “Am I right in assuming that’s due to one hot-to-trot fed?” He hitched his bearded chin in Julia’s direction.

“Never assume, Hew. It makes an ass out of you and m?—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hew waved him off. “Stop with the diversion tactics and spill the tea. Or…the coffee, as the case may be.” Hew appeared pleased by his own wit. “Are you two secretly dating?”

“ No ,” Britt hissed. “And keep your voice down. That accent of yours travels.”

“I don’t have an accent. You have an accent.” Hew blinked when he realized they had gotten off-topic. Again. He pointed an accusing finger at Britt. “Diversion tactics! Stop it!”

“Shhh!” Britt peeked beyond the condiments and didn’t know if he was relieved or ready to spit nails when he discovered Julia still deep in conversation with Mr. Hero Hair. “And no. Julia and I aren’t secretly dating.”

“Then what are you doing here besides shooting eye daggers at Captain America working the register?”

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.”

Hew snorted. “Hate to break it to you, brother, but you think jumping out of perfectly good planes is fun. We passed the exit to crazy miles ago.”

No use lying. Bitt was caught red-handed. “I’ve been coming to…uh…see her.”

Hew rubbed his hand over his short beard. “Now, see? When you say it like that, it sounds okay. Because when you say you’ve gone to see someone, people assume that means the person you went to see is seeing you too. But not once has that lovely little blond looked your way.” He hooked a thumb in Julia’s general direction. “And I can’t help but notice you’ve picked a rather strategic spot over here behind the condiments station.”

Britt didn’t respond. But he knew his glare was sharp enough to cut.

Unbothered, Hew grinned. Or what passed for a grin on Hew’s face, which was more just a quirk of the left side of his lips. “No need to look like someone shoved a cactus up your ass. Just tell me why you’re stalking an FBI agent.”

And there it was. Said right out loud. The S-word.

“I’m not stalking her.” The lie fell easily from Britt’s tongue. Unfortunately, it tasted like piss.

“To borrow one of your favorite phrases… bullshit .”

“Okay, fine. But it’s not what you think.”

“I think she’s got a smile that could melt the brass off a doorknob. And I think one look at her makes your boy parts get bigger.”

If the Earth’s crust had chosen that moment to crack open and swallow Britt whole, it would have been a kindness.

Instead, Britt was left to grit his teeth. “So it is what you think. But it’s more than that. She… fascinates me. She’s got all these interesting pieces that don’t fit together. And I can’t stop myself from trying to solve the puzzle.”

Hew’s eyes narrowed. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really. I’d like to forget we started this conversation.”

“Humor me anyway. Unless you’d rather I got Agent O’Toole’s attention and—” Hew turned in Julia’s direction and cupped his hand around the side of his mouth like he was getting ready to shout her name. Britt astonished himself by punching Hew in the arm.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed.

Hew lifted an unphased eyebrow. “Then give me a reason not to. I need something to make the trip out here worth it. And if you’re not willing to entertain me, then maybe the hottie with the body”—again he hooked a thumb in Julia’s direction—“will.”

“Fine,” Britt spat.

Hew crossed his arms, the picture of indolent interest.

Sighing heavily, Britt decided that maybe if he admitted his reasons for following Julia, it would take away their power. Maybe if he said the words out loud and heard how ridiculous they sounded, her hold on him would loosen.

“She’s…tough and no-nonsense, right?” They’d learned that much about her when she’d come into their lives while investigating a mass shooting at a senator’s house. “But she’s also this tenderhearted thing who collects stray animals like most folks collect Amazon boxes. She’s whip-smart, and yet she reads trashy sci-fi novels.” His words came quicker as he listed her quirks and qualities. “She pays attention to the most minuscule details when she’s on a case, but she’s a menace on the road. I’m convinced she’s paying attention to everything but the fact that she’s driving when she’s behind the wheel. If there’s a pothole, she finds it. If there’s a curb, she’ll hit it. She’s a mystery inside an enigma wrapped in a boxy pantsuit. And all I want is to figure her out.”

For what felt like an eternity, Hew remained expressionless. Then he grinned—or, rather, that corner of his mouth quirked. “You like her,” Hew said.

“She has more than two brain cells to rub together and is built like a brick shithouse.” Britt shrugged noncommittally. “What’s not to like?”

“No.” Hew shook his head. “You like her like her. Like, hearts and flowers like her. Because if it were anything less, you wouldn’t be stalking the woman.”

“Quit using that word.” A muscle ticked in Britt’s jaw.

“Which one? Like or stalking?”

“Now that I think of it, both.”

“Quit liking her to the point of stalking her”—Hew shrugged as if it was just that easy—“and I will.”