Page 94 of Bitter’s Sweet

He grunts and goes back to work.

I watch because apparently I am the kind of woman who can get turned on by a man replacing a door lock. He works with steady hands, explaining nothing at first, then answering when I ask questions. The lock cylinder is worn. The linkage is loose. Somebody forced it at some point. Maybe Razor. Maybe Ronnie the bribeable motel clerk. Maybe time.

Bitter does not tell me which possibility he believes, and I appreciate that. He lets me hand him tools, lets me hold the flashlight, lets me exist beside him without making me feel useless.

That might be the most seductive thing he has done yet.

When he finishes, he tests the lock three times, then hands me the key. “Try it.”

I do. It locks clean, unlocks clean, with no sticking and no wiggle.

My eyes burn.

Oh, that is ridiculous. It is a car lock, not a wedding vow.

Still.

“Thank you.”

His gaze sharpens at the sound of my voice. “Sweet.”

“I know. I’m not supposed to thank men for basic decency.”

“That ain’t what this is.”

“What is it?”

He wipes his hands on a rag, eyes on mine. “Me making sure the next time you need to lock a door, it damn well locks.”

My heart turns over so hard it hurts.

This is the problem with Bitter Adams. His mouth keeps calling everything club business while his hands keep giving me pieces of my own life back.

I tuck that thought somewhere dangerous and follow him across the lot.

He walks me to the School of the Dead without touching me. Not my hand, my waist, or even my elbow. Nobody could mistake the way he watches the space around me, though. His attention moves from vendor tents to rooftops to passing bikes, always returning to me.

Mine, his posture could almost say.

Then he catches me looking and raises one brow like he knows exactly where my thoughts went.

Not mine, I remind myself. I belong to me.

Oddly, I think Bitter would agree.

Mercy notices us coming and lifts one eyebrow. “You two survive the night without paperwork?”

“Barely.”

Bitter grunts.

“That could mean anything with him.”

“I slept in the bed. He slept on the couch.”

“And was there a weapon between you?”

I think about the kiss, his hands braced beside me, his mouth at my throat, the way he stopped the instant fear entered the room.