Did Shoulders know how he looked at people?
Feeling shorter than usual, Cady followed her little entourage down the hall. Chris and Lieutenant Hawthorn were of a height, around six feet tall, but Shoulders, aka Officer McCormick, towered over all of them. Especially her. He was easily twelve and maybe fourteen inches taller than she was, and up close, he blocked out one of the overhead lights.
“Excuse me, Ms. Ward. Could I get your autograph? It’s for my daughter.”
The middle-aged officer’s request for her autograph turned into posing for a picture. Once someone broke the ice, other, less adventurous folks always followed, and it was a good ten minutes before they were able to leave the precinct. She was aware of Chris waiting somewhat patiently behind her, and hyperaware of Conn looming just to her left in jeans, a hoodie, a sheepskin-lined denim jacket, and running shoes. She’d never seen him in uniform. Now surrounded by them, she found herself wondering how he’d look in dark blue. Did the uniform transform his face from pugilistic to authoritative the way her stage makeup and costumes transformed her from plain Cady Ward of Lancaster to the Queen of the Maud Squad?
Maybe. Out of uniform he looked like a boxer, maybe an MMA fighter. Okay, realistically he looked like a thug. The muscles in his shoulders pulled taut the fabric of his jacket, and his thighs bulged in the soft material of his jeans. His hands were balled into fists and straining at the pockets of his denim jacket. His dark brown hair fell forward over his forehead, but whereas that softened some men’s faces, all it did to Conn was draw attention to his blue-gray eyes, the fistlike jut of his cheekbones, the full contours of his mouth.
She handed back the paper, gave the Sharpie to Chris, who held out a hand without even looking up from his phone, then reached for the door.
“I’ve got that,” Conn said, and reached past her to push it open, his chest and arm pushing heat and strength at her like a punch. Her body responded, sending a sharp zing along her nerves. Her nipples peaked in the warmth of her down coat. No way could she blame that on the cold November wind. That was pure physical response to Conn.
“Go ahead,” he said, his gaze searching hers, then the parking lot. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” she said. Did he have any idea at all how he looked at people? He threw looks like most people threw punches—hard, fast, aiming for a TKO with every look—but all she could see was the vulnerability, the need, the plea underneath the look, the gray in his eyes.
Then he blinked. When his eyes opened again, the vulnerability was gone.
“Can we please walk through this door?” Chris said from behind Cady. “At the risk of sounding like a cliché, I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“Over here,” she said to Conn, leading the way to her car. He looked it over appreciatively. She’d bought an Audi RS5 just before returning home, splurging on a car that hit sixty faster than a Porsche 911 but with all-wheel drive to get her around in Lancaster’s winters. Conn held out his hand for the keys.
“I drive myself,” she said.
“That’s going to be a problem,” he said.
“Why?”
“It’s a control thing.”
“It’s my car.”
“I can’t protect you if I’m not in the driver’s seat,” Conn-the-thug said, causing serious cognitive dissonance in Cady’s brain. He looked like he was two seconds away from starting a bar fight, but he sounded like a highly trained professional. Up close his voice was like a low curl of sand, not a bass or a baritone but a dry, husky tenor rasp. She found herself wondering how it would sound murmuring in her ear as he took off her clothes.
“Cady, at least unlock the car so I can get inside before I freeze to death,” Chris said. “You two have ninety seconds to hash this out.”
Cady clicked open the doors. Chris, thank God, jammed his lanky limbs into the backseat and slammed the door. Conn unzipped his jacket and reached into the inner pocket.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Do you smoke?”
Her appalled tone got through the glass to Chris, because the door swung open and he clambered out, glaring at Conn as he straightened his jacket. He pointed at Conn with one finger, the remaining digits wrapped around his phone. “Smoking around Cady is expressly forbidden.”
“It’s a deal-breaker,” Cady added. “You can’t be jonesing for a ciggy every twenty minutes. It makes you anxious, which makes me anxious.”
Conn flicked her a glance, then pulled a black watch cap from his jacket and yanked it over his head to cover his ears. “I don’t smoke,” he said, reaching back into the pocket for a pair of fingerless gloves. “Now give me the keys and we’ll be on our way.”