I blinked, then looked up into those cobalt blue eyes of his. Oh yes, I was definitely distracted.
Alex Grace was heavenly. His milk-chocolate dark hair curled in run-your-fingers-through-it waves, which licked the tops of his completely kissable ears. Those searing eyes were framed by to-die-for lashes. His cheeks were tinged pink, and his lips were pressed into his trademark half smile, which was all at once genuine and cocky, with just a hint of sex appeal. A man like this was otherworldly.
And Alex had the two tiny scars just below his shoulder blades to prove it.
Alex was an earthbound angel. Fallen, if you want to be technical. But he lacked the certain technicality that made other fallen angels so annoying: He didn’t want to kill me. Most of the time.
I tried to tear my eyes away from his beautiful, full lips—lips that I distinctly remembered kissing—and focused hard on my rogue clients; but even though we had decided to be “just friends,” almost six months ago, there was still a sizzling something between me and Alex. Call it forbidden love or my addiction to Harlequin novels, but Alex Grace was not an easy man to get over.
After all, he was an angel.
“Nice box.”
“Oh, this?” Alex shifted the box and I rolled up on my tiptoes and lifted the lid.
This time, my thudding heart skidded to a stop. There were books and a few wrinkled copies of Guns & Ammo (What? Did you think fallen angels read the Bible?), what remained of a spider plant, which Alex had brought back to life for me, overstuffed file folders, and, rolling on top, the coffee-stained Don’t Hassle Me; I’m Local mug I got him last summer.
His eyes softened. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
I put the lid back on the box and blinked up at him. “Are you going somewhere?”
He nodded, licking his bottom lip. “I was going to tell you, but ...” Alex shrugged and looked away in that annoying, alarming way men had when they’ve just told you something vague and noncommittal that could either be “I’m considering changing from boxers to briefs” or “The fate of the world hangs in the balance.”
“But what?” I tried to keep my voice steady, reminding myself that a good friend doesn’t let her voice go into high-pitched hypersqueak when another good friend might be leaving.
“It’s not really a big deal.” He shifted the box. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”
I sucked in a deep breath. “Can’t we talk now? In your office?”
“My office is pretty much cleaned out, but sure.”
Since fallen angel-ing didn’t come with a paycheck or a 401(k), Alex spent a good chunk of his mortal life working as an FBI field detective, generally stationed in a back office at the SFPD. The vagueness of his actual job title or description allowed him to come and go as he pleased, attending to official police—or angel—business whenever necessary. And also, he really liked donuts.
I followed Alex to his office and gaped at the half-empty room. The desk, where he had worked on cases—and where I once had imagined him pulling me down into a passionate embrace—was shoved against a wall and stacked with cardboard boxes. His office chair was upended on top of them. The free 2008 Honda calendar, which had been tacked to the back wall since 2010, was missing, as was the souvenir picture of us at the Giants baseball game.
“Why is your office cleaned out?”
“It’s no big deal. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be around for a while.”
The file in my hand was suddenly filled with cement, was a hundred-pound weight that pulled my hand down. I leaned in close to Alex, swallowing heavily to try and find the smallest bit of saliva in my Sahara-dry mouth.
“Are you going back?” I finally managed.
Alex, though earthbound and fallen, wanted to return to grace—and I wanted that for him, even though grace meant I would never see him again. But now the thought of my life without him hit me like a raw fist at the bottom of my gut.
Alex was silent for a second that lasted millennia. He put the box down gently and blew out a sigh, which held all the emotion of the last two years of our life together.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I’m going to Buffalo.”
I choked on the love-soaked soliloquy I was composing in my head. The one that talked about how I would, as the Vessel of Souls and Alex’s only link to the Heavenly plane, be willing to give up my life for him to return to grace. I cocked my head and felt my lip curl up into an involuntary—and undoubtedly unattractive—snarl. “What?”