Sam was chuckling. ‘Thorne’s just jealous because he’s got to clean up this mess all by himself.’
Yes, Thorne admitted, but only to himself. He was jealous of the married guys who had partners to go home to. Once they all left, his house would be far too quiet. But he’d never admit that to any of them, because they’d all conspire to fix him up. They were worse than old women in that respect.
Instead, he raised one brow. ‘Ruby cleans for you?’ He pulled out his cell phone. ‘Should I ask her?’ Sam’s wife Ruby, formerly Lucy’s ME tech, was now Thorne’s death investigator. He highly doubted she would actually clean up after Sam.
Sam laughed. ‘Please, no. I value my life.’
‘We single guys have to go too,’ Jamie said with a sigh. He backed his wheelchair away from the table with an ease that came from a lifetime of practice. Born with spina bifida, he’d used a chair from the time he was a child. ‘I’m getting too old for these late nights.’
Jamie’s movements were only a little slower than they’d been when he and Thorne had first met, nineteen years before. Jamie Maslow had started out as his attorney, but had quickly become his friend and mentor. And the closest thing he’d had to a father since his own dad had died when Thorne was just a boy. Now Jamie was his employee. Newly retired from his own firm, he did pro bono work for Thorne’s.
‘You wouldn’t be single if you’d just marry Phil and make an honest man of him,’ Thorne said blandly. It had taken him months to stop calling Phil ‘Mr Woods’ when the two men had taken him in as a scared and abandoned teen.
His old history teacher had left the fancy prep school Thorne had attended years ago, dedicating his career to teaching kids in the inner city. Thorne admired them both, so damn much. They’d been the role models he’d so desperately needed as a miserable kid. They’d given him a home when he had nowhere else to go.
‘I keep asking him,’ Jamie said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘He says that when he retires, we’re going to elope to Vegas and get married by Elvis.’
Frederick snorted. ‘I think if you elope, you’ll have a revolt on your hands.’ The newest member of their group, Frederick Dawson had recently come to Baltimore from California. Once a high-profile defense attorney in Oakland, he had recently become licensed in Maryland and worked with Jamie and Thorne on a pro bono basis. He gestured to the empty chip bags and beer bottles. ‘Seriously, you need help cleaning up before we haul our asses out of here?’
‘Nah. It won’t take me long.’ Thorne knew he was lucky. He had good friends, loyal and respectable. There had been a time when he didn’t know if anyone respectable would ever give him the time of day. But even the best friends in the world had to go home sometime.
And I’ll be alone. Still. Always.
Someone rapped briskly on his front door, opening it before Thorne had a chance to push away from the table. Lucy peeked into the room. ‘Can I come in?’
JD’s face lit up with a smile of surprised delight as he hurried to greet his wife. ‘I thought you had to work the office.’
Thorne, Lucy and Gwyn had managers who worked the front of Sheidalin, but the three of them liked to have one of the owners in the office on Friday and Saturday nights, the two busiest – and most lucrative – nights of the week. Gwyn normally took those shifts, but Lucy had pinch-hit tonight so that Gwyn could go on her date.
Since Lucy was here, Thorne assumed that Gwyn’s date had not occurred. He felt relief ripple through him.
‘Gwyn took over,’ Lucy said, then laughed when JD dipped her low and kissed her soundly. ‘She told me to go home, but not to have any fun.’
JD’s brows shot up. ‘Why?’
Lucy sighed sadly. ‘She’s in a mood.’
‘Are we going to listen to her and not have any fun?’ JD asked.
Lucy shook her head. ‘Hell, no.’ She waggled strawberry-blond brows. ‘The kids are staying with Clay and Stevie tonight. We’re going to take full advantage of an empty house, then lie through our teeth and just tell Gwyn we had a terrible time.’
‘I’ll get my gun out of Thorne’s safe and we can head home.’ JD took off, a distinct spring in his step.
‘Show-offs.’ Thorne gave Lucy a hug. ‘I’ve got one of your casserole dishes in the kitchen. Come with me and I’ll find it for you.’ He led her away from the prying ears of his poker buddies, who were awful gossips. ‘Why did Gwyn come in?’ he asked carefully, hoping to confirm his assumption. ‘I thought she had a date.’
Lucy made a face. ‘She got stood up. Again.’
Yes. Her date had been smart after all. ‘That’s awful,’ Thorne said soberly, and with anyone else he could have pulled it off. But he and Lucy had been friends for nearly a decade and she knew him far too well.
‘It is,’ she said, frowning at him thoughtfully. ‘This is the third guy who’s canceled on her. She’s only been on one date since she started going out again, and he never called her back.’
Because that guy was smart too, Thorne thought balefully. ‘Maybe it’s the dating service she’s using.’
Lucy narrowed her eyes. ‘She’s not using a dating service. She’s been fixed up by friends. Which you knew. Tonight’s date was someone I personally vetted. He’s a nice guy. Wouldn’t harm a flea. Much less be so rude as to stand her up. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with this, would you, Thorne?’
Abso-fucking-lutely. Thorne gave her a look of disbelief. ‘What? Why would you even ask me that?’
‘Because you should be as pissed off as I am on Gwyn’s behalf. But you’re not. What’s the deal? She’s been alone so long. She’s finally dipping her toe into the dating pool and you’re . . . what? What are you doing?’
Suggesting that they ought not touch her. In a roundabout way, of course. But at six-six and two hundred fifty pounds, even his indirect suggestions were crystal clear. ‘Nothing.’
Lucy blinked at him. ‘Thomas Thorne, you’re lying to me.’
He winced. ‘Not . . . exactly.’ He’d simply needed more time to tell Gwyn how he felt himself. Because she’s mine.
Lucy stared at him for a long moment, then her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God. You . . .’ She struggled for a word. ‘You want Gwyn? For yourself?’
Thorne could feel his cheeks heating. He could fool a whole courtroom, but not Lucy. Who was, it seemed, a lot more aware than Gwyn herself. He’d been hinting – openly flirting even – for weeks, but Gwyn was oblivious.
He said nothing, reaching into a cupboard to get Lucy’s glass dish. ‘I washed it,’ he said, shoving it into her hands.
‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You don’t get to shoo me away. What the fuck, Thorne? Do you want her or not?’
Only with every breath I draw. He had for years, but they’d never been single at the same time. And then . . . Gwyn had been broken by a vicious killer, her confidence shattered along with a few bones. That had been four long years ago. She’d crawled into her shell afterward, nursing her wounds, physical and emotional. He’d waited. Patiently. She was finally emerging. He was finally seeing glimpses of the woman she’d been before a killer had destroyed so many lives.
The woman who loved life, loved music, loved to laugh. She was still there, but stronger now. More beautiful. A survivor.
If she was going to dip her toe in anyone’s pool, it was going to be his.
And you realize how that sounds, don’t you? The small voice was not so small on this topic. It was actually a scream. You’re a fucking stalker!
If I ask her to go out with me and she says no, I’ll walk away, he promised the scream in his most rational tone. He just needed to ask her. Sometime this century. It was just . . . He’d be shattered if she said no, and that was a vulnerability he didn’t know if he could deal with.
‘Not your business, Luce,’ he said quietly.
‘Bullshit,’ Lucy said, just as quietly. ‘Whatever you’re doing, for whatever reason, is hurting her, Thorne. You don’t want that.’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t. I just need some time.’