No White Knight

“What would you know about anything pu—”

Oh.

Oh, God.

Lifting my head to look up at him was a mistake.

I thought he didn’t notice the way our hands touched.

But from the way he’s looking at me…

Crud.

I’m very, very wrong.

Holt looks at me like he sees something pure and perfect right here, right now.

Like he sees something that fills him with such wonder it makes his voice soft, his eyes dreamy and dark, and he can’t look away.

No one’s ever looked at me like that.

Usually it’s a mixture of consternation, fear, and complete and utter disgust for my rude mouth. The way he’s staring at my lips right now sure ain’t foul.

Hot is the only word that comes to mind.

Like he’s touching me without ever lifting a finger.

Like he can already taste my lips with his eyes and make it feel like a kiss.

Welp, I’m gonna spontaneously combust.

My fingers go limp on this small lacquered box I was lifting out. I nearly drop it—and it’s the sudden feeling of it slipping that breaks the spell.

I suck in a breath, ripping my gaze from Holt’s and grasping the box.

It’s black, roughly the size of a grown man’s clenched fist, fully opaque and shaped like a cube.

I frown, turning it over, fully distracted.

Can’t remember seeing this thing before.

“What is this?” I murmur, running my fingers along the seam until I find the catch.

It pops open with a metallic boink!

Inside, nestled in a bit of foam that seems to be cut to fit it, there’s an odd-shaped stone.

Maybe twice the size of a really big marble.

It’s porous, almost like a pumice rock, and really light. The color seems strange, a kind of murky off-red shade that makes me think of the stones in my necklace, but not as polished.

Instinctively, I catch myself reaching for my Aries necklace, tracing the little red stars inside, while I turn the box so the rock catches the sun.

“This can’t be it,” I say. “Can it?”

“Doesn’t look like much to me,” Holt says before grinning. “Unless it’s some old-timey fortune teller’s prophet stone. Maybe Ursa had all kinds of weird shit going on.”

I roll my eyes, flipping the box shut and setting it on the table. “Pretty sure that rock came out of someone’s garden. Looks almost like the red rock they use for gravel filler. Maybe it belonged to my grandma or something.”

“But why would it be in a case like this?” Holt picks up the black lacquer box, turning it over. “It’s the only one without a label, too.”

“It probably fell off,” I say. “I bet if we dig around in the box, we’ll find it crumpled up in there.”

“Maybe.” He sets it back down, then stretches, lifting his arms over his head until that flannel shirt rides up.

I get a glimpse of his tight, toned waist twisting against the paper-thin undershirt underneath. With a groan that borders on obscene, he drops his arms, rolling his neck, stretching.

Dear Lord.

“Think whatever we’re looking for isn’t here. We need a break,” he says.

At least one of us does.

I need air to tame these hot flashes.

Swiping two of the four remaining beers from the six-pack in the fridge, I head outside like the devil’s on my heels because he is.

But this devil seems oblivious to the effect he’s having. He just thanks me with an easy grin when I pass him a beer before he flings himself back down in the chair he’d left before, sprawled there with masculine ennui and lazy strength.

Ass.

Yeah, I’m mad at him now.

Pissed for being so hot I can’t peel my eyes off him for half a second.

But it’s not grating like before. Mostly because my mind’s on other things.

Sighing, I drop down in my own chair, cracking my beer and taking a cold sip to chase away the dust I’d breathed in up in the attic.

“So if we can’t find this rock,” I say, “what do we do?”

Holt taps his fingers against the side of his beer can with little plinks. “I’m not above helping you hide a body.”

I snort, muffling a tired laugh against the mouth of my can. “Don’t say that! I might take you seriously.”

“Who says I’m not serious?”

“Holt.” I tilt my head, glancing over at him, resting my cheek to my shoulder. “When you look at it straight, that’s concealing a crime. Obstruction of justice and all that jazz. Only one of us needs to be guilty of that.”

“You just basically admitted intent,” he rumbles, half smirking, leaning across the table—and I’m suddenly too aware it’s a damnably small table. “So now I know. If I don’t go to the cops, I’m guilty of aiding and abetting anyway. Might as well get my hands dirty.”

“First time I saw you, I wouldn’t have believed you knew a thing about getting your hands dirty.” I eyeball him, my lips twitching.