The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

"What?"

"My car. Bell said he decided the color didn't suit me, so he fucking stole it, and had it painted."

"What color?"

"A deep, royal purple. And, yes, I love it. And it totally suits me more. But still. It's an invasion."

"At least you haven't been drugged and kidnapped," I suggested.

"I'd say that is a small miracle, but it is by design. He knows I'd kill him if he tried. So, what do you think of them?" she asked, nodding toward Rosie and Amita.

"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "They seem competent. I guess that is all that matters."

"Does it bother you?" she asked. "That the team keeps growing," she clarified.

"No. I think it needs to if we are going to stay relevant. Crime is just getting more and more intricate. We need people who know how to handle all of it."

"Yeah," she agreed, not completely convinced.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you will still get to be the biggest thorn in Quin's side."

"It's not too much to ask, is it?" she said, smirking. "I'm going to run full files on them, though. Since the boss man didn't think he needed to bring me in on this beforehand. We all have skeletons hiding in our closets. It's important to know what ones to expect. Speaking of skeletons, how is yours doing?" she asked. "I'm assuming she is why you're late."

"Nia..."

"I'm not pushing. I mean, I will if I need to. But I'm torn here. On the one hand, I know—we both know—that this is going to blow up one day. On the other, I've never seen you look this rested or relaxed."

"I won't let it blowback on the office. Or any of you," I told her, shrugging. She didn't even know where I worked. I felt like we were starting to get to know each other well, but there were big chunks of my life that I knew I wouldn't be able to share with her. Specifically, any of the parts that involved my work. Because I couldn't tell her the truth, but I also didn't want to lie any more than was absolutely necessary.

"I'm sure you won't," Nia agreed. "But I'm not just worried about us, about work. I'm worried about you."

"I'll be fine. I've been through a lot. I've managed."

"Hm," she said, pushing off the wall. "I wonder if you've ever managed heartbreak," she went on, moving away. "Because I think that is where you are heading."

I couldn't shake her words. Or the likely reality of them.

It was a low mood that weighed me down for the rest of the meet-and-greet, for the drive back to Poppy's house, even as I stood waiting at the door for her to let me in.

But as soon as she opened that door?

Shit, it all fell away.

I didn't give a fuck what the consequences were.

I was going to let myself love this woman.

"Oh my God. I can't believe you!" she said, launching herself into my arms, pressing a big, long kiss to my lips as I turned and moved us into the foyer. "For the record," she started against my lips, "you don't have to get me presents. But also for the record, if you are going to do it, that is the way to do it. And now you get to see how I will thank you for presents," she said, tone full of dark promises she was all too happy to make good on.

Later, as Poppy curled into my chest, letting out a sleepy whimpering sound, with Yogurt keeping my feet warm, there was a tingling, warm sensation across my chest that it took me a long, long time to recognize after going so long without it.

Happiness.

Pure happiness.

I didn't know then how short-lived it would be.

Chapter Twelve

Poppy

Okay, maybe to most people, it wasn't a big deal.

But it was a big deal to me.

Everyone liked presents, sure, but I was a real sucker for a present that had some thought behind it, that showed actual effort.

Not long after Finn went off to work, a delivery truck pulled up out front and dropped off a package I most definitely hadn't ordered.

I brought it inside suspiciously, worried one of my followers had somehow found my home address, and was being creepy or something.

But nope.

Not at all.

It was Finn being sweet and considerate.

It went back to that night when my table on the porch was knocked over, sending my book askew, and breaking one of my favorite mugs, one that couldn't be replaced.

Except, of course, if you were a man like Finn who would go out of his way to find the original mug creator, and asking them to please make me a new one.

Except, he'd had it remade to suit me exactly.

Meaning it wasn't just a plain white stoneware mug with brown flecks. Oh, no. He'd gotten her to make me a white one with red specks that looked a hell of a lot like blood. And when I flipped it over, the blood pooled in the bottom with a phrase drawn in the puddle.