Page 20 of Detective for the Debutante (SAFE Haven Security #3)
LEIGH
W hat are the odds?
The universe has a weird sense of humor. It has to. Because why else would I come face-to-face with my sleazeball of a boss as soon as I step into Murphy’s favorite place?
Maybe I broke a mirror in a previous life. Or walked under a ladder. It couldn’t possibly be the number of umbrellas I opened as a child playing beach in our living room.
I had hoped to forget about Kenneth. To enjoy my time with Murphy despite the fact I’d had to make sure the excess saliva in my mouth didn’t puddle at my feet when I answered the door tonight.
Tough to do when every seam of his Henley strained under the onslaught of firm muscles beneath it.
Muscles I had felt when I put my hand on his bicep earlier.
His sleeves were still tugged up, showing off one bare arm and the beginnings of his sleeve tattoo I’ve only seen peeks of at the wrist and collars of his dress shirts.
Pair the seam-tested tee and the jeans molding to his thighs over scarred leather boots?
I was a goner. Even if I was able to stuff the attraction down, it still simmered like a watched pot. I just couldn’t let it boil over.
Murphy O’Connell is like some sort of Greek god come to life.
No, not Greek. Gaelic.
A Gaelic warrior who now stands at my back as I face a man who wants to haunt my nightmares. Kenneth’s icy blue gaze shifts behind me briefly before capturing me again.
“Leigh, I didn’t realize you decided to join us,” he says, his attention roving from the top of my head to my feet, staying way longer on my chest than he needs to.
The urge to reach up, to tug my neckline higher, itches at my fingers but I fight the need.
I’m not wearing anything inappropriate, despite the way Kenneth’s attention makes me feel. Three other people stand just behind him, and I recognize two of the women as other interns and the third as a junior associate. Is it a coincidence all three of the people with him are women?
Probably not.
Thank God for Murphy.
I clear my throat, aiming for a professional tone, since what I really want to do—tell this asshole off—would get me fired.
“Actually, it’s a coincidence. I thought you guys would have been long gone by now.” Especially seeing as how the four of them had left just after lunch, but I keep that to myself. “I’ll see you guys on Monday. Have a great weekend.”
Lacing my fingers through Murphy’s, I yank him behind me.
Ignoring the halfhearted goodbyes and Kenneth’s sputtering behind us, I don’t stop until we’re standing at the bar.
Untangling our fingers is harder than it should be, and I immediately miss the calloused strength of his hand wrapped around mine.
But this isn’t a date.
“Sorry,” I tell him, weaving my fingers together to curb the urge to reach for his hand again.
He shrugs, a smile playing on his lips.
“Doesn’t bother me any. I’m not a big fan of Kenneth Scott.”
“Me neither.”
He opens his mouth to say something, his attention zeroing in on me in a way that has me convinced he can read my every thought.
“Can I get you something?” A bartender waits patiently next to us, interrupting whatever Murphy was about to say.
“Can I get a table and a bucket of your local beers?” He glances at me.
I nod before shifting my gaze to the muted blue room around us. Each table is lit up where players are, several of them in darkness, waiting for the rest of a crowd while country music croons through the speakers.
I blow out a breath, and a light flickers on above a table as Murphy nudges me.
“Table 5.” He leans down, his breath tickling my ear to be heard over the music.
I fight a shiver and our eyes clash over my shoulder. His lips are close—too close for me to fight the temptation.
So I do the only thing I can.
And move as fast as my two feet will carry me to the rack of cues next to the fifth table.
Murphy is staring at me with an odd expression on his face as he moves at a more normal pace, putting the tray of balls down on the felt and the bucket of beers on the nearby table.
“You alright, Leigh?” he asks, reaching for the stick next to the one my fingers are wrapped around.
“F-fine,” I squeak, pulling too hard on the cue and almost smacking both of us with it.
He reaches up, holding the cue steady before I can take control over it.
And myself.
What part of not a date do you not understand? Murphy is not a date, he’s a friend. You’ve had guy friends before.
But none who looked like him.
Get a grip.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I prop the cue next to the chair and reach for a beer, twisting off the cap and enjoying the light flavor of blueberries as the drink fizzes on my tongue.
“You didn’t have to walk away from them if you wanted to visit,” he tells me, grabbing his own beer.
His swallow is visible as he tilts his head back, but his attention stays focused on me. Is that what he thinks my awkwardness is about? Maybe I’m doing a better job at hiding my attraction than I thought I was.
“I didn’t. I meant what I said. Kenneth gives me the creeps.” Gooseflesh ripples down my arms, and I rub at the spot where his hand had grabbed my leg earlier this week, trying to get rid of the creepy-crawly sensation.
“Did something happen?” he asks, his wolf-colored eyes dropping to where my fingers press against the thick denim of my pants.
Chewing on my lip, I debate what to tell him.
“I’m probably making more of it than there is,” I start, taking another drink of my beer.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” His gaze finds mine again.
I hesitate with the word judge. What if I tell him and he doesn’t believe me? What if all I do is show how na?ve I am and how I don’t really belong in a big city? That I just reveal exactly what he’s already cautioned me about—the age gap between us.
“Leigh?”
He moves closer, his warmth enveloping the two of us. His presence drowns out all the sounds of the bar and the loud questions in my brain. But it’s the warmth radiating from him that unlocks the words where I’ve been holding them, and they tumble out.
The job offer, the way he touched me, the invitation to tonight’s happy hour.
Murphy’s golden eyes darken the more I share, shifting from amber to brown, like the light extinguishes behind them.
His hands fist at his sides, the knuckles standing in relief when I get to the part about Kenneth grabbing my leg.
Only when I draw a shaky breath at the end does his attention shift away from me, releasing the spell around us.
He finishes off the bottle in his hand, the glass hitting the wood of the table with a hard thunk while my heart races in my chest.
The way his large hand gentles around the bottle, the restrained power in the movement, creates a different kind of warmth, a heat pulsing out from my core to my extremities.
Why is the simple gesture such a turn-on?
“You need to report him,” he says.
It takes several beats for his words to penetrate through the fog of lust.
“To whom?”
“To whoever will listen.” He reaches out, lacing his fingers through mine and tugging me into the mesmerizing sphere of his cologne. “As much as I want to go beat his ass right now, that won’t do you any good. What about the attorney you work for? Lindsay? Can you tell her?”
“I…I don’t know. What if she doesn’t believe me?”
What if she thinks I did something to encourage the behavior? What if I get fired? What happens to my shot at getting on with Project Justice then?
“Then quit.” He says the words like they’re simple. The solution we’ve been looking for.
But again, it won’t do me any good with my application at the end of the summer.
I tug my hand free and spin for the table.
“It’s not that easy.” I toss the words over my shoulder as I rack the balls, needing something to keep my hands busy as my mind skitters into a thousand different directions.
His hands come up, running up and down my arms, the gesture soothing, and my hands still on the cool, heavy spheres beneath my fingertips.
“He’s a predator, Leigh. Anyone who looks at him recognizes that. What happens if he does it to someone else? What happens if he tries something more with you?” There’s a banked anguish in his voice, like he couldn’t stand to see something happen to me.
I turn in his arms and his hands drop to the table on either side of my hips. But being caged by him doesn’t scare me. My growing attraction to him? That’s scary. But in a completely different way.
“You’re worried about me,” I say, my pinkies teasing along the warm skin they can reach.
“You’re damn right I am.” A muscle tics in his jaw, reinforcing his words.
“What happens if I do and nothing happens?” I don’t voice the question bothering me the most—what happens if I do and something bad happens?
“I’ll be here for you. I can help.” His words are comforting, a promise I’m not walking into this alone.
“You’re moving,” I remind him.
“It doesn’t matter. Here or DC. I’ll be here. Supporting you.”
“So I have to report him.” It’s a borderline statement-question but he nods.
“You do. As soon as possible.”
If he thinks there’s enough there, maybe there is. Lindsay has been as much of a mentor as a boss over the last few weeks. Maybe I should trust her.
“O-okay.”
“Okay?” His eyes lock with mine, imbuing me with some of his warrior energy.
“I will. Monday. First thing.”
“Good girl.”
My whole body flushes at the innocent use of those words, and he clears his throat, stepping back. Cool air, along with sanity, rushes across my overheated skin.
“Have you played before?” he asks.
I recognize the change of subject to less risky territory. We’ve been riding the line into something dangerous and more than friends.
“A couple of times,” I tell him, biting back the smile that threatens.
He cocks his head to the side, studying me intently.
“You’re not telling me something.”
“You want to break?” I ask and reach for my beer to hide my warm cheeks.
“You don’t?”