Page 38 of Sinner’s Game

“Sorry,” I say, only then realizing that I’ve wandered down a dangerous mental path.

“I said that I feel about pie the way you do about cookies.”

“What’s that?”

“I bake pies. To relax.”

I lean back against the counter. “No way. Apple pies?”

“Apple and pumpkin are my favorite. But I’ve been known to go wild with cream pies a time or two.”

“You wild and crazy guy. And here I thought you got all of your excitement rappelling down buildings or leaping from helicopters while you chase bad guys.”

“Yeah, well, that’s on equal par with rolling out the dough for a nice flaky crust.”

“I’ve always believed that cooking was an extreme sport. Now I know. Still,” I add, waving the wooden spoon at him, “between cookies and pies, cookies are the real art form.”

“Woman, them’s fighting words.”

“Phhbt.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it. We’ll have a throw-down one of these days. My pies against your cookies.”

I cross the kitchen and extend my arm over the island. “You’re on.”

He reaches forward and takes my hand. Our eyes meet, his full of heat and need. And in that moment, I can’t seem to speak. I can’t even seem to think.

I see his lips part, and I realize he’s about to say something. That’s when I hear the tell-tale beep, beep, beep of someone punching in the front door code. I yank my hand away, my eyes going wide. “You expecting someone?”

He slides off the stool, shaking his head as he frowns. “No.”

At the same time, I hear a female voice say, “Ronan? You home?”

I turn, gaping at Ronan. I recognize that voice. “Reggie?”

As soon as I say her name, the woman herself strides into the living room, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She tosses it onto the sofa, looking as comfortable here as if it were her own home.

Oh dear God, is this her own home? Are Ronan and Reggie...

Tall and athletic, Reggie Taggart is another member of Saint’s Angels. She has shoulder-length dark hair highlighted with cobalt blue streaks, deep-set eyes, and a hint of a Central-Mexican accent. I don’t know what training landed her in the fold, but I do know she’s seriously badass.

She’s usually totally put together, but today, she looks slightly frazzled around the edges. I’m hoping that’s from the job and not because she’s annoyed at having walked into the house to find me cooking with Ronan.

I thought she lived at the hotel she manages, a job that’s both a family business and also a cover for the work she does with the Angels.

But what if she actually lives here? What if she shares a bed with Ronan? I haven’t seen her since the wedding. Have they started going out in the interim? Have they always been going out? Casual fuck-buddies? Serious dating?

“Brandy? Are you okay?”

She’s moved through the living room to the island where Ronan is on a stool. Now she’s peering at me, a quizzical expression in her dark brown eyes.

I shake myself out of it. “Reggie. Hey. What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are. I’m working on figuring out what’s going on with the body in your living room.”

Some of the tension eases out of my shoulders. Of course, she’s here about the body. And I need to pull myself together.

There’s no reason for me to be tying myself up in knots. There’s nothing between me and Ronan. Nothing except one exceptional kiss in a dark alcove. A kiss I’m starting to wish had never happened even though its memory is one of my favorite nighttime fantasies.