Butterface

“So why did you join the police department?” Gina asked as they carried the two boxes of tin ceiling tiles back to his car.

Ford’s grip on his box tightened. “Everybody needs a job.”

“Bullshitting doesn’t suit you,” she said with a laugh.

Using the act of balancing the box in one hand while he pulled his car keys out of his pocket as cover for the unease creeping up his spine, he bought a couple of seconds. “You know me so well?”

“Enough to know when you’re dodging.”

He popped the trunk open. “It’s a boring story.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe that.”

Ford put his filled-to-the-brim box in the trunk and then took the half-filled box from Gina and set it next to the one he’d carried. She was staring at him, her arms crossed and a small smile playing on her lips. It was the curl of her lips that did him in. The need to make sure that smile stayed in place had him opening his mouth.

“I had a friend in high school, Jake, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was crossing the street and a drunk driver blew a red light, hitting him hard enough that it knocked him out of his shoes.” He let out a breath, clearing the mental image of what the scene must have looked like from his head. “The driver didn’t stick around to see if Jake was still breathing. He peeled away, leaving burned rubber and a dead seventeen-year-old at the corner of Phillips and Granbury.”

“That’s horrible,” she gasped. “Did they find the guy?”

He closed the trunk with more force than necessary. “No.”

“I’m sorry.” She stepped close and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

It wasn’t a long hug, more of a quick squeeze, but he felt it all the way down to his center. And when she let go, he missed the feel of her touch immediately. He had no fucking clue what was happening to him. Why her? Why now? But the answers to that didn’t matter, because the fact of it was something was happening.

She went to take a step back, but he grabbed her hand, stopping her. Surprise and heat flared in her eyes. Yes, his entire body answered, and he stepped close, dipping his head as he did so.

A loud wolf whistle from a passing car barely registered, but Gina jolted back at the sound, her face flushed as she nervously chewed her bottom lip, a protective arm slung across her belly.

Shit.

Ford searched the street, wanting to mop the street with the dick who’d put that look on Gina’s face and stopped the kiss before it could happen. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it wasn’t you, I just…” Her words died off.

He intertwined his fingers with hers. “What?”

“It’s nothing.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t take.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” Sure, he was pressing, but no one should be able to put that lost, beaten-down look on her face.

“Sometimes old hurts come back to slap you in the face, that’s all.”

“Gina,” he said, using the same comforting but authoritative tone he employed when interrogating nervous witnesses. “I want to understand.”

She swallowed and lifted her chin and pulled her hand free from his, obviously determined to brush whatever was going on under the rug. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Was it the guy in the car? Do you have history?” His gut clenched at the idea of that. Possessiveness wasn’t the best look for a guy in his position, but he couldn’t deny that’s what had him grinding his teeth in frustration.

“A history?” Her cracked laugh was as disbelieving as the look on her face. “No. I have no clue who that was.” She walked around to the passenger side of the car. “Look, let’s just go home and put up this ceiling.”

“You can’t avoid this story forever.” Not if it made her react like she just had. This was important, and he wanted to protect her from it.

“Yes,” she said, opening the door and sliding inside. “I can.”

…

The next week was all hammers and nails—and not in a way that would reduce any of the frustration building each time Ford laid eyes on Gina. So far, he’d helped take out a wall in the hall so it could be widened, knocked out some primo avocado-green laminate countertop in the kitchen, put up the tin ceiling, and helped Huey, the plumber who seemed to owe a great debt to the Luca family—Ford didn’t want to know for what—renovate the master bath. That last one meant traipsing through Gina’s bedroom multiple times a day, which was its own kind of hellish torture for his imagination.