“Ohmigod. Hot cop. It’s the hot cop,” Cat muttered quickly under her breath.
Helen had already seized the moment. “Nice night for a run,” she called out before whispering, “What?” to Cat.
He walked closer, hopping onto the sidewalk in front of the stoop.
“Not bad,” he said, flashing a smile at Helen, his teeth large and white. Cat didn’t bother explaining. His eyes scanned the group before settling on Cat.
“Detective Hutton,” she said. “Hi, it’s me, Cat from RAGE.”
His eyes widened. “Uh…Hi,” he said a bit awkwardly. “I thought you lived in Bushwick.”
All five women took note: He knows where she lives.
“I do. Dinner party,” Cat said, gesturing to her friends. “We’re wrapping up…but to my credit, I’m still fully clothed after midnight, and you’re down to just running shorts.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” said Helen in an exaggerated aside.
Hutton’s smile came back. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said deliberately, looking only at Cat. “I went running to burn off the energy, and I had to grab something out of my car…I live down the block, actually.”
“On Ocean?” Sigrid jumped in, unable to stop herself. “Do you live in the jazz dorms?” The building adjacent to the aboveground subway stop, 100 Ocean, was famous for the never-ending rotation of recent jazz school graduates who lived there, swapping Berklee, UNT, and the New England Conservatory dorms for crumbling prewar studios where—thanks to the ambient noise from the train—they could play all night.
“No, but is that what you call the building next to the train? That’s funny. No, I’m at 60 Ocean.”
“Oh!” Sigrid looked shocked. “Are you subletting?”
“No, it’s a family property,” he said. “I only moved in two months ago.”
“Oh. Okay, nice to meet you. I’m Sigrid Gunderson. This is my house,” she said and pointed behind her. “I know everyone on Ocean, that’s why I asked. I love that building. The units never go on the market, though.” Sigrid could talk neighborhood real estate for hours. “I’ve been in a few of the apartments and they’re all period prewar, original medallions in the ceiling, everything. Someone told me last year that both units on the sixth floor are still classic eights.”
“They are. I’m on 6. Uh…do you guys want to see it?” he asked. In a different real-estate climate, this would have been an odd question coming from a shirtless man standing on the sidewalk in the middle of the night.
“Absolutely,” Sigrid said as her face lit up. Birdie, Helen, and Bess were all bobbing their heads enthusiastically.
Cat froze. “Now??” she asked. “You don’t want to have us over now…”
Hutton gestured at his body. “You’ve already seen it all,” he joked. “I’m halfway through a renovation, but there’s a full bar,” he said roguishly, flirting with all five women at the same time. It was inappropriate, appallingly blatant, and it made Cat laugh.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll come over to your apartment in the middle of the night, but only because I have your badge number, Officer.” Her emphasis on the last word was aimed at Birdie and Helen, who squealed and saluted.
“Officer!! We’re Birdie and Helen, and that’s Bess,” they chimed in an untidy, alcohol-warmed unison, descending the stoop and sticking out their hands. He leaned up a step and gave all four women firm handshakes.
“I’m Mark Hutton,” he said, “and yes, I’m in the NYPD. I met your friend Catherine today.”
“We’re just going to grab our things,” said Sigrid. “We’ll be right back out. Don’t go anywhere.”
Bess gave Cat a suggestive wink before filing back inside with Sigrid, Birdie, and Helen. Hutton climbed the stoop halfway and sat down; Cat folded herself down a step or two above him.
She looked down at his body and was unable to stop herself from ogling his suntanned skin, the tiny hairs running down his neck, the line where his shorts banded over his stomach muscles. The tattoo on his arm was a topographical map of something she didn’t recognize. He wasn’t very sweaty. He still smelled clean and sharp. I bet he’s one of those people who exercise for fun, she thought, before realizing she was still holding her cigarette. She lit it, smoking almost unconsciously.
Hutton reached up and grabbed her hand. Her heart stopped.
He ran his fingers over hers and slid the cigarette into his own, then pulled his hand away, took a long drag, and held it up for her to take back.
The heat, heavy and still, suspended a thin ribbon of smoke between them. His fingers were long and dexterous-looking. She felt a sudden urge to put them in her mouth.
Instead she took the cigarette back and said—more aggressively than she meant to—“A runner who smokes?”
“I run so I can smoke,” he replied. “I run so I can drink, so I can eat meat, so I can sit still and be lazy. It’s my sole concession to health. What’s your excuse?” Hutton, too, sounded sharper than he meant to.
“I’m completely, helplessly addicted,” Cat said slowly, looking right into his eyes.
The front door opened behind them. Helen swooped down to grab the cigarette out of Cat’s hand before dancing down the steps. Birdie and Sigrid followed, each carrying a bottle of red wine. Bess walked out with her helmet strapped on; she reached down and hugged Cat while Sigrid locked the door.
“I have so much to do tomorrow. Love you, but I have to go home.” Bess unlocked her bike and rolled it out to the street.
“Are you okay to bike?” asked Hutton, his voice stern.
“I’m good. Watch.” With her helmet still on, Bess cartwheeled into a handstand and held steady.
Hutton gave her a nod of approval. She climbed onto her bicycle and pedaled away toward the Manhattan Bridge, while Sigrid, Birdie, Cat, and Helen followed Hutton up the street.
Chapter Four
Cat stood on the escalator promptly at 9:00 a.m. She’d been awake since six, when the sound of her building’s fire alarm ripped her awake from the obscene dreams she’d been enjoying. After shuffling outside with the rest of the tenants while wearing an old pair of shorts that said “only $5 we write anything you want” on the butt and a heavily ink-stained men’s flannel shirt for what turned out to be a false alarm, she was unable to go back to sleep.