Above his mask, Jeremy’s eyebrows cranked down. “Like the Civil War battle?”
She laughed, and Nick was so drawn to the sound. He wished he’d been the one to cause it. “Just try it out for now. See how she likes it.”
He winked. “I’ll have a full report waiting for you. Hey, so, what do you think?” He gestured to the front of his shirt. “Told you I’d wear one for you.”
“What’s it say?” She walked closer, and it was crystal clear the moment she read his Big Johnson Tattoo Parlor shirt, with its iconic cartoon character tattooing a naked woman’s back. Her mouth dropped open on a gasp. “I can’t believe you wear that.”
“Well”—he waggled his eyebrows over the mask—“it’s only fair to warn people.” The shirt read, “You’re gonna feel more than a Little Prick.”
She pressed her lips together like she was trying to hold back her laughter, but humor absolutely danced in those blue eyes. “I think you might be a bad influence on my baby.” Becca leaned down and covered the dog’s ears. The puppy tried to gnaw on her hand.
Jeremy scoffed. “You wound me. I may never recover.” He retreated toward his room and pointed at Nick. “I gotta get back to it. Eight p.m. Don’t forget.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rixey said. It’s on the list.
Becca ran Shiloh-for-now outside for a quick business trip, then they left the dog to nap and play in the shop while they went upstairs to wait for the others. Nick placed the pizza boxes, paper plates, and canned sodas on the bar.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, retreating down the hall without waiting for him to respond.
Bracing his hands on the counter, he watched her walk away, that boulder making its presence known on his chest again. Pissed at himself as he was, he didn’t want her hurting. Before they had an audience, he followed her back to the room.
Not thinking, he pushed through the mostly closed office door and inhaled to speak her name, but the word died on his throat.
She stood in the bathroom doorway naked from the waist up, except for a pale yellow and white lace bra. The yellow looked so pretty against her skin, and the lace curving over the swells of her breasts tempted his fingers, his tongue.
He was immediately hard.
“Uh, sorry,” he murmured, turning at a ninety-degree angle from her and diverting his gaze to the floor.
She gasped. “Shit. Do you realize you make, like, no noise when you move?”
He scrubbed his hand over his hair and willed his libido under control. This was the damn problem in a nutshell. “Sorry. Old habit.” He caught movement in his peripheral vision but didn’t let himself look.
“Yeah. My dad was the same freaking way.”
And there went the erection.
“It’s so nice out, I was worried I’d be too warm in long sleeves. Did you need something?” she asked, stepping into the office in a short-sleeved shirt. With a flash of her hands, she twisted her long hair up on top of her head and used a band to hold it up off her neck.
He gave a tight nod and forced himself to focus despite the fact that the lacy bra remained visible through the white V-neck. “I need to apologize.”
Emotion flickered over her expression, but she just looked at him.
“I was an ass and I didn’t mean—”
“Look—” She shook her head and stepped to the door. “Let’s not do this. Okay? I’m not going to lie, you hurt my feelings. But, in the end, it was a good thing. Because you reminded me I need to stay focused on Charlie. I can’t be distracted by anything else. So don’t sweat it.”
Voices sounded from the living room, and Nick frowned. The words should’ve given him relief. She’d let him off the hook and wanted bygones to be bygones. But there was that damn boulder again. “Okay,” he said. “Come on.”
Anticipation filled his gut as they entered the living room. Standing in the middle of Shane, Easy, and Beckett was Derek DiMarzio, looking about a hundred times better than the last time Nick had seen him. His brown hair had grown out to the length of his jaw, and his shoulders appeared bulkier under his shirt. Hell, he looked downright fit and healthy, maybe even like he had a bit of a tan. Most noticeably, he was standing on his own two feet. Or, presumably, his own foot and a prosthesis.
Nick walked right up to him and held out a hand. “Thanks for coming, man. You look great.”
Marz wore his trademark smile, just one watt dimmer than a full-on grin, and returned the shake. “I feel great. Nice to see you. Thanks for giving us a reason to get back together.”
Rixey felt the unspoken sarcasm radiating from the other three, but he let it go. Hard not to feel a healthy dose of positivity and gratitude in the face of someone like Marz, who had suffered the most catastrophic injuries of any of them yet seemed to have the best attitude.
“Come on in. Grab some slices and let us catch you up.”
“I just dumped my gear there,” he said, pointing to a stack of cases by the front door. “That kosher?”