When some women blush, it’s like a delicate pink flush over their cheeks. Hannah’s blush goes everywhere—over her cheeks and nose, down her neck and under the edge of her simple black T-shirt. But my favourite bit is how it colours the tips of her ears.
“I have to stare. It’s not often I see a class-A idiot in the flesh,” she snaps.
The defensive comeback bounces right off me—I’ve been called worse. No-hoper. Slacker. Troublemaker. I saw my eleventh-grade science teacher in my first month of being a constable and her eyes almost popped out of her head. To say most people didn’t expect me to do much with my life is an understatement.
Have you done much with your life? Really?
I promptly ignore that inconvenient thought and file it away where it belongs: in the corner of my mind marked “shit not to think about.”
“You’ve got such a way with words, Anderson.”
“It’s Hannah, remember? You can’t mess that up.” Her cheeks return to their usual colour as she tucks into her Pad Thai. “Now, back to work. We’ve got to get out and talk to people.”
“Have you ever met a newlywed couple who wanted to become BFFs with their new neighbours the second they got married? No, they want to fuck like animals and not leave their apartment.”
She rolls her eyes. “You would think that. How many times have you been married?”
“Zero. But if I did get married, I wouldn’t make hanging out with the neighbours my first priority.” I reach for my Coke. “However, I do agree we can’t sit in here all night.”
“Then what?”
“We go for a romantic evening walk in the garden.”
She looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “A romantic walk?”
“It will give us a chance to scope out the property, look for anything out of the ordinary and find some surveillance points.”
“And then we can talk to anyone we come across?”
I sigh. “We don’t need to talk to them yet. It’s not a good idea to come across too eager.”
“Is this some weird guy logic?” She narrows her eyes. “Like needing to wait three weeks before you call a girl after a date?”
I raise a brow. “If he’s waiting three weeks, he’s not interested.”
She stabs at her dinner like she’s trying to make sure it’s dead. Either that, or she’s imagining it’s me. “I’m talking hypothetically.”
I would usually take the opportunity to stir her up some more, but for some reason I don’t want to talk about Anderson’s dating life. It makes me feel a little stabby myself, so I move the conversation on. “If we come on too strong, we might tip them off. We need to seem interesting, so they come to us.”
“And by ‘seem interesting’ what you really mean is ‘seem rich,’ right? We need to make ourselves a target.”
“Exactly. And it needs to be subtle. We can’t look like we’re trying to get anyone’s attention.”
She makes a sound of frustration that’s music to my ears. Winding her up is way too easy. “So we have to attract attention without looking like we want it, and we have to avoid talking to people so they want to talk to us? Doesn’t that seem a little counterintuitive?”
“No, it seems like the right way to do things. Trust me, I know how these guys work. Last time—”
“Yes, last time you brought down a crime ring almost single-handedly. I remember the bragging.” She shakes her head and scoops up a pile of noodles with her fork. “Why did you move to New York, anyway? It seemed like you were on the rise, and then suddenly I hear you’ve taken off.”
Speaking of things to file under “shit not to think about…”
“I’m a free spirit, baby.” I use the smile that comes naturally to me—the one that’s been convincing people for years that I don’t give a crap about anything. “I go wherever the whim takes me.”
She shakes her head and concentrates on her meal. In the silence, I watch her. I liked Anderson the second we crossed paths in our first week at the academy. She’s smart—if a little traditional in her approach to things—and she’s calm in a crisis. I’ve seen her outrun some of the fittest men I know to take down a bad guy. I’ve seen her talk herself out of dangerous situations and I’ve seen her stick up for some of the most vulnerable people in the communities we serve. Despite my teasing, I respect her a hell of a lot. She deserves to be a detective.
And I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Who’s staring now?” She smirks at me with a self-satisfied expression that’s a flashing cape to a bull.
“You have a little something…” I lean forward to point at an imaginary spot on her cheek and when she moves I flick her nose with my finger.
“You’re such a child,” she says, rolling her eyes. But that doesn’t stop her dabbing at the imaginary spot with a napkin. “Fine, let’s try it your way tonight. Romantic walk in the garden…but we might want to bring a bucket in case I need to puke from the pressure of pretending to be attracted to you.”
“Who’s the child now?” I mutter, stacking the empty containers and stifling the grin that wants to burst forth. If I’m going to be back in Australia, then at least I have some fun to distract me from the growing list of things I don’t want to think about.
Hannah
THERE’S A SURPRISING amount of garden space out the back of 21 Love Street, considering we’re in South Melbourne. From what I’ve read on the building, this used to be a big warehouse lot that was rezoned to accommodate residential construction. The original building was torn down, but instead of filling the space with a huge apartment tower, they went for quality over quantity. It makes for a nice change from the other massive towers popping up all over the city, which are slowly blotting out the light in increasingly cluttered streets.
There’s a shared barbeque area with tables and chairs adorned with striped cushions. A curved path leads to a communal vegetable garden already budding with zucchini and thick bushes of thyme and mint. I take a moment to crouch down and breathe in the enticing scent. A lemon tree fills one corner, bursting with yellow fruit. Several lemons lie on the ground, half-consumed by some creature who must have stumbled across the bounty.
That’s when I notice a small single-door gate next to the tree. Between the darkness of the evening sky and the fullness of the lemon tree, it’s somewhat concealed.
“See that?” I turn to Owen. “It would be pretty easy to slip in and out here at night without being seen.”
The sky isn’t too dark yet—but soon it will be. There aren’t many lights in the garden, beyond the barbeque area and the entrance to the building that houses the indoor swimming pool. This part of the yard is shadowy and private.
“I’m assuming it’s locked,” Owen says, taking a closer inspection. “There’s a latch and a padlock, so it’s not accessible with the key cards.”
“That means it’s not for resident use. What’s behind it?”
Owen jumps up and wraps his hands over the edge of the fence, hoisting himself up. I suck in a breath at the sight of his muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of his jumper. He’s always been