Prologue

A WICKED GLINT FLASHED in the man’s eye as he admired his reflection in the window. He returned his attention to the photo of a Hispanic-looking countryman before slashing a red X on it with a marker pen. He shoved it aside and picked up a picture of another Hispanic man, drawing a bullseye on that one. Discarding the second, he reached for another photo—an attractive Caucasian male with fair hair. He drew a question mark on the image.

The dim light in the man’s office emanated from flickering TV screens, each tuned to different news channels from around the world. Shadows danced on the walls, creating the ominous backdrop he relished. A large map of New York City, covered with red pins and cryptic notations, dominated one wall. He grabbed his phone and made a call, barking orders in Spanish. The intensity in his voice forced a stammer from the subordinate; he enjoyed knowing his menace carried down the line.

“No, keep him alive. I want to look into his eyes and see the fear. I want to smell it, though I doubt he will actually shit himself. Well, maybe as we torture him. I want to pull the trigger at the end.” He listened for a moment. “Okay, keep me in the loop. We’ll meet soon.” A grin crept across his face as he ended the call. He lifted a Cuban cigar—puro in his mother tongue—and took a long draw. The smoke curled around his face, shrouding him in a haze, as he tightened his eyes, a quiet malice coiling inside him. He lifted an imported fine Spanish brandy from Jerez and took a healthy glug. Smooth. Sweet. He savored the flavor as it slid down his throat. He raised the glass to an image of a building in New York City, displayed prominently on his computer screen.

“Salud,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with a chilling malice—health. “Soon. We will meet soon, and you will pay for your crimes against me.”

He leaned back in his leather chair, narrowing his eyes as he plotted his next move. His reputation for merciless retribution was well-earned, or so he liked to believe, judging by the fearful glances of those who crossed him.

He picked up another photo from the stack—a young woman in her early thirties with striking eyes and an air of innocence. A cruel smile crept across his lips as he decided her fate.

A sudden knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts. He stiffened, his hand drifting toward his gun holstered under the desk. His eyes flicked to the door, sweat beading on his brow. His head snapped up. He’d rehearsed this a hundred times or more. Every knock at the door was a potential threat. So what if they called him paranoid? It kept him alive, didn’t it?

“Enter,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence with an icy edge.

A subordinate stepped in, his gaze flitting around the room before locking onto the man’s face, his hands trembling at his sides. “Sir,” he stammered, “we’ve received new information. The target’s position has weakened further.” He swallowed hard, his hands fidgeting. “We think it’s time and just need the information.”

A sharp jolt of satisfaction coursed through him. “Good.” A predatory grin coiled at the corner of his mouth. “Very good. We are procuring the information. Keep me informed of any developments. And remember, I want him alive.”

The subordinate nodded and retreated, leaving the man alone with his thoughts. He turned back to the photos, a smirk curling his lips as he envisioned his plan. The night was young, and much work lay ahead. He wouldn’t rest until his revenge was complete. And when that moment came, he would savor it.

Puffing on his cigar and sipping his brandy, the man’s thoughts returned to the fair-haired man with the question mark on his photo. Who was he? What role would he play in this intricate web of deceit and vengeance? The uncertainty thrilled him, adding another layer of excitement to his dark game.

Soon.

His gaze fixed on the New York City skyline on his screen.

Very soon.

Chapter One

NYPD DETECTIVE JOSHUA WATSON unlocked the door and entered his apartment in the early hours of the morning. The sound of the New York traffic breached the windows along with the moonlight. A scream sounded out, maybe a block away. The Big Apple hadn’t changed in his absence. He turned on the light.

The return flight from Colombia had been a damn sight easier than the one going out. He’d booked four days ahead and scored a direct out of Cartagena. His outbound trip had taken him through the capital, Bogotá. He hadn’t flown to Colombia for the weather. He’d gone to hunt down the bastard who’d murdered his partner, then settle the score. Cartel boss Horacio Salas had killed Detective Robert Cooper over a stupid porcelain figurine. My God, how he’d paid for it though—with his life.

While over there, he’d hooked up with Sofia Ramírez. Things had turned steamy, much more than he’d expected they could. He’d almost stayed, tempted by the idea of a life with her. The warmth of her touch still lingered. But he’d returned to pursue Dr. Jacqueline Bradshaw, the station psychologist. The draw to both was equal but different in measure.

He already missed Ramírez as he sat at his dining table eating Chinese takeout he’d picked up on the way home. In his vibrant city, somewhere was always open, catering to every craving and schedule. After eating, he flipped open his phone and scrolled through photos of her, his deep blue eyes scanning as he flicked at the screen. He looked at her beautiful face and expelled a long sigh.

Had he done the right thing?

He stared blankly at the dining table. Should he have stayed? He clasped his hands, then brought them to his chin, thumbs beneath, the index finger of his left hand resting on his lips. Perhaps he should call her tomorrow? He shook his head. No, it would only prolong her torment. She had declared her love for him—in no uncertain terms. It wouldn’t be fair.

Enough. He shoved thoughts of Ramírez aside and pictured Bradshaw instead. A smile spread at the thought of seeing her, then a sense of guilt washed over him as Ramírez popped back into his consciousness. Torn between the two of them, he had never experienced such insecurity over what to do. He let out another long breath. Should he pursue Bradshaw or contact Ramírez? It wasn’t possible to do both—that was more Bobby’s style.

He stood and stretched his six-foot-two-inch muscular frame and shook his head before heading for the bedroom. He dreamed of Ramírez all night.

———

Ten hours later, his head pounded, limbs heavy, as Josh woke at 11:34. He swung his legs around to the edge of the bed and stood, muscles protesting with each movement. He checked himself in the mirror. The long flight from Colombia back to New York had etched dark circles under his eyes and settled exhaustion deep in his bones. He hadn’t slept that long since he was a teenager. He must have needed it.

After showering, he headed to the kitchen, feet dragging. He grabbed a box of Cheerios, then poured them into a bowl, and splashed in some milk. He scoffed at the idea of calling it, making breakfast. Preparing seemed more accurate. He began eating, then paused mid-shovel, his gaze fixed on the spoon as his thoughts drifted back to the events of the previous month.

Bobby’s funeral came back sharp. The eulogies. The casket. None of it ever left him. The whiskey back then burned sharp, but didn’t touch the ache of losing his best friend. He’d been half a breath from pouring it on his cereal, if he’d been eating. Then came Bobby’s ghost. The first time it appeared, it hit hard and rattled him bad. But why the delusions? Maybe the whiskey. Possible PTSD. Perhaps his mind had finally slipped. In the end, he’d had to face it. Bobby’s ghost was real.

The revelation landed in a bar, his second home back then. Which bar didn’t matter. Any bar, any time, did the job. But Bobby’s words … those nailed him. Stuff no one else could’ve known. The chill slid in sharp and fast—too close, too personal—and either Bobby really was a ghost or Josh had switched from Cheerios to Fruit Loops. And since he was the only one who could see him, he’d learned to live with looking like an idiot who talked to himself or dodged conversations when people were around.

The image of Dr. Jacqueline Bradshaw disturbed his reverie as he carried his bowl to the sink. As he washed it, he scrubbed with short, forceful strokes, a clear destination already forming in his mind: the station to tell her about his transfer. The thought of asking her out crossed his mind. It gave him a flicker of hope that it would justify leaving Ramírez behind.

He changed into something a little smarter and put on his best cologne to see her. Might as well look and smell worthy.

He checked himself in the mirror as he ambled to the apartment door. He’d styled his blond hair into a modern comb-over. But when he caught the dark circles under his blue eyes again, he grimaced. A stark reminder of the toll Colombia had taken on him. He left the apartment, closing the door behind him, his hand remaining on the handle as a thought occurred to him: where was Bobby? He’d not seen him since Colombia. Josh snickered—generally, he lingered like an unpleasant smell.

———

A little after one p.m., he walked into the station house, and his lips responded with a smile. The familiar sights and sounds widened the grin. As he walked past the captain’s office, Granger glanced up and grunted. He considered flipping him the bird but thought better of it. The amused reactions from his colleagues flashed through his mind, along with the captain’s stern reprimand right after.

He stood in front of Bradshaw’s office, heart hammering, palms slick with sweat. His butt cheeks clenched just like the first time he asked a girl out. He knocked.

“Yeah,” a gruff voice said from behind the door. The doc probably had a cold. He opened the door and poked his head in, the sight of a man’s face stopped him cold.

“Where is Jac—” he began, then thought better of it. “The Doctor?”

“Bradshaw moved to the one-oh-nine. The Doctor, as you put it, transferred.”

“Oh … er … thanks.”

He turned and stomped away leaving the door open.

Chapter Two

THE MID-MORNING SUN streamed through the office window as Pedro Garcia slammed the phone into its cradle cracking the plastic.

“Hijo de puta,” he shouted. Son of a whore, his mind translated on reflex. His fist crashed onto the desk. He barely recognized himself after shedding twenty pounds since Horacio Salas’ murder at the hands of Detective Watson.

Horacio. His boss, brother from the streets, and best friend.

Gray streaks now threaded through his dark brown hair, and the sharp intensity in his amber eyes had faded. His fists tightened at the thought of the chaos consuming his home country. His eyes welled as he thought of Salas, their shared past now overshadowed by loss. Following his death, Garcia had taken Salas’ place as head of the cartel.

Watson would pay.

He pushed away his untouched food, the sharp angles of his hollow cheeks and gaunt frame reminding him of recent events. The Colombian authorities had severed his drug supply and frozen all his South American accounts. Without Salas in Colombia, that side of the business lay in tatters. The cartel’s revenue had plummeted by seventy points, leaving only the American accounts accessible. The reflection on the computer screen showed the deep lines that creased his forehead as he stared at the sparse documents detailing the faltering accounts. Every mention of Salas on the monitor quickened his pulse.

His face stiffened, then relaxed as his thoughts drifted to his long-neglected hobbies and pastimes. Memories of wandering through art galleries and exhibitions ensued, losing himself in the vibrant colors and striking forms—a stark contrast to the shadows of his criminal dealings. The memories of intricate sculptures and evocative paintings stirred something inside him that nothing else could. He recalled Salas’ relentless pursuit of power and violence and, in contrast, his thoughts shifted to ancient artifacts and historical exhibits. Haunting memories of those he had killed crept in, each face staring back at him, accusing, dragging him deeper into the shadows. Yet, thoughts of the golf course where he’d played with Salas brought back the familiar rhythm of their swings and the peaceful greens, a quiet reminder of his friend. The phone’s sharp tone snapped him back to the present.

“Yes?” he said and lifting the handset.

“Watson is back in the States,” a voice said.

“Okay. Have him followed. Build a pattern of his movements.”

He put the phone down with a decisive click, his eyes returning to the spreadsheet. His jaw tightened. Salas’ name echoed in his mind, the memory of his friend’s death twisting like a knife in his gut. He clenched his fists, the fire of retribution burning inside him, a fierce resolve building to uphold their empire.

Watson would pay. He must die.

———

Josh climbed the stairs of the one-oh-nine, jaw clenched. He paused mid-step as Bobby’s death crept back into his mind. Horacio Salas had been just a faceless killer back then. Bobby had come back from the dead, and together they’d tracked the bastard down and locked him away, only to watch the cartel bust him out and whisk him off to Colombia. He could still feel the turbulence from that flight to the country’s UNESCO-listed port city of Cartagena, with his friend sitting right next to him, chasing Salas across the Caribbean Ocean.

He kept climbing and couldn’t stop grinning at how Bobby had slipped through walls and beat on thugs who couldn’t see him over the past month. They had been unstoppable. Then his smile died. He pictured his friend’s hand materializing beside him, a pistol in his grip, followed by the red dot blooming on Salas’ forehead and a thin trickle of blood running down. Vengeance belonged to Bobby, cold and exact.

So why was Bobby still here? He had killed Salas and should have moved on.

Josh’s mind flicked to the Colombian police special forces, COPES. He’d stumbled over saying it—co-pes, the way they pronounced it. He pictured the bar where they’d made him an honorary member, hazing ritual and all. Then Andreas—Andi to his friends—Herrera pushed into the memory, and a grin cut across Josh’s face. He could still hear him on the radio outside Salas’ villa, voice steady, orders sharp and sure, the kind that settled men before a fight. Whether with guns or fists, when someone talked like that, you listened. You got ready. Quite the leader. Quite the man.

He ached. Ached for the physical punishment endured in Colombia. But his heart also ached for Sofia Ramírez, the woman he’d considered making a life with but walked away from.

His brow creased. Did he do the wrong thing? Should he have stayed?

His chest tightened. Jacqueline Bradshaw’s image surfaced again, and he relaxed his face. His pulse always quickened whenever she was near, or just at the thought of her. The spark that made him return. An undeniable pull deep inside urged him to leave Colombia and Ramírez behind. The draw between him and Bradshaw had been too strong to ignore. He needed to find out if it could be more. He had to try, driven by the need to know. And now he was here to see her and maybe begin a journey of discovery.

He reached the top of the stairs, pushed through the double doors, and strode to reception. To say most at the one-oh-nine disliked him was an understatement for sure—they hated him. He’d solved Bobby’s murder and brought the perp to justice, despite the case being assigned to two detectives at their precinct. As he approached the receptionist, he glanced around, catching hostile stares, their narrowed eyes and tight expressions dripping with disdain.

Ignoring them, he flashed his badge. “Detective Watson. Here to see Dr. Bradshaw.”

The receptionist pointed. “That corridor, third on the right.”

He ignored the stares of malice as he made his way toward the corridor.

Faint heart never won fair lady.

Josh fought to stifle a grin, then gave up, much to the disgust of all eyes on him, he was sure. He reached the third door on the right, took a deep breath, and knocked, silently praying she was in.

“Yes,” came a female voice from behind the door. The familiar melody of her voice sent a rush of warmth through him, but his hands shook, his earlier confidence slipping away. His mind flashed back to his sixteen-year-old self, nerves jangling as he approached his first potential date. He quashed the memory, opened the door, and stepped forward as the bold Sir Galahad in search of Lady Guinevere.

“Detective Watson! How did you find me?” Bradshaw said.

“The clue is in the moniker. Detective …” A smile spread across his face, pushing through his uncertainty. “And please, call me Josh. Can I call you Jacqueline?”

“I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me, you can call me Al,” she sang, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. They giggled like children. “It’s a bit informal, but yes, I’d like that. Please, call me Jacqueline.” Her eyes sparkled, the corners of her lips curving into a smile. “My friends call me Jacqui. Are we friends now, Josh?”

“I suppose that’s just it, Jacqui.” He shifted his weight, fiddling with his signet ring. “I’d like us to be. We’re no longer siblings under the same roof. We’re now cousins from neighboring counties. So, we can drop the formality, no?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I suppose we can. How did you know my first name?”

He met her gaze. “Did you read my file before my first session with you?”

“Yes, of course I did. It’s part of my job.”

“And part of my job is to read the files of persons of interest.” It was going way better than he expected, but his last line contained so much corn, it needed harvesting.

She flushed. “Why are you here, Josh? I can’t help you with your feelings of loss for Bobby anymore.” Her eyes darted left and right, a flicker of hope brightening them as if she wondered if he was about to ask her out. Her eyes fixed on him. “Surely, you know that?”

“I’m here.” He paused, his fingers tapping on his thigh. “To ask you …” He hesitated, uncertainty growing.

She leaned forward, her eyes urging him to continue, it seemed.

“Would it be okay to take you out to dinner one night? When we are both free?” His shoulders relaxed.

“No, Detective. It would not be okay.”

His eyes dropped to the floor, then back to her.

Her lips stretched into a broad grin. “I earn more than you, Detective, so I’d be happy to take you to dinner.”

“Dutch, Jacqui!”

“Deal, Joshy!”

“Jacqui, I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m no chauvinist. More of a traditionalist. It’s just the way I was brought up.”

“Josh, I get it, and I’m not a feminist. It didn’t offend me in the slightest. I’m me. And you are chivalrous, and that’s refreshing.” Her smile faded, her expression turning neutral. “But as I said, I am me. I can provide for and take care of myself. I don’t mind having heavy stuff carried or doors opened for me. Men have their uses.” Her eyes twinkled as she grinned.

Josh’s pulse quickened as he handed her his card. “Call me so we can arrange.”

“No.” She handed him her card. “The gnarly detective can call me. That’s what men say they’ll do, and often don’t. I’ll test your chivalry. You’re on trial here, sunshine.”

They swapped numbers easily, even though Josh already had hers from her call when he was in Colombia. Exchanging numbers was part of the dating ritual, and he was determined to play by the rules, and so was she, by the look of things.

He turned to leave.

“Josh, wait, please. Thank you for coming. We both wanted to get to know each other better, but knew we couldn’t act on it at the precinct. Thanks for giving us a chance to get to know each other properly.” She beamed, her smile the most radiant Josh had ever seen.

“Honestly, Jacqui, if you hadn’t transferred, I would have. Yes, I wanted to get to know you better, and sensed you wanted to get to know me. So I guess we’re both to blame for whatever happens next. I’ll be going then. And I promise to call soon. Scout’s honor.” He held three fingers of his right hand to his temple.

After stepping out of the office, he closed the door and released an enormous sigh. After shaking his head, he made his way down the corridor and headed for the stairs, a spring in his step.

Out on the street, hunger pangs hit Josh as walked away from the station house. Bewildered wasn’t the word that sprang to mind. The scene where Charlie from the Willy Wonka tale finds the Golden Ticket was more appropriate—dumbstruck. He’d skipped meals in the last forty hours since leaving Colombia, so stopped at a diner. After ordering the largest plate on the menu with a few sides, his phone rang. Jacqui’s number flashed on the screen, and he smiled.

“Detective Joshy Watson,” he answered.

“Josh! I don’t want to wait. I think we waited long enough, don’t you? Can we have dinner tonight? What do you think? Please?”

“Nah.” The corners of Josh’s mouth turned up. “It’s NBA night!” He’d make her work for it.

Jacqui’s voice dropped. “Oh.”

“Kidding. Yes, we waited. Why not?” He paused for thought. “I saw a place a few blocks from your new station house. Wanted to try it out for a while. I’ll connect with you on WhatsApp and drop you a map marker. Will seven p.m. be okay?” He hadn’t ever expected to appreciate tech, but somewhere over the Caribbean on his way back, he’d sworn those technophobic days were done.

“Yes!” she replied.

“I’ll see you then.” He ended the call, his pulse thundering.

Chapter Three

THAT EVENING, JOSH ARRIVED at Restaurant Le Gran Bleu ten minutes early. He walked down three marble steps from the entrance. His wallet sat heavy in his jacket, as if resisting the thought of being used. The host at the lectern in the foyer greeted him, asked his name, then called over a waiter to seat the guest.

Josh stepped into the dining room, shoes pressing into a carpet deep enough to give CSI a headache if tasked with hunting a small-caliber shell. White walls wore enough gold trim to make a mob wife blush. Candlelight bounced off silverware polished to a high shine. A silver serving tray caught the light, polished hard enough to pass for a one-way mirror in an interview room. Even the yellow chairs sat up stiffly, as if they were expecting company.

He followed the waiter and cut a glance at the bar. Dark wood, white walls, and red rugs loud enough to trip an alarm. Polished marble floors flashed back every detail, like the place was showing off.

Josh carried a single red rose. After being seated, he placed it with care at Jacqui’s table setting. Too much. But not showing some sort of affection was alien to him; he wore his heart on his sleeve, a traditionalist and a hopeless romantic. He glanced around the restaurant, soaking up its ambiance as Jacqui sashayed into the main dining area, and he caught more than a few heads turning her way. Such elegance will do that.

“You beat me here. Damn!” Jacqui huffed, crossing her arms with a playful smirk. She flicked her hair back and leaned in. “I like to arrive first, to own the dating ground and assess my prey as he approaches!” She laughed with him at her own joke as she moved to her side of the table with effortless grace and took her seat.

Josh caught himself staring. He had never seen her in a dress before. The way it traced her figure, showing off toned arms and soft curves without crossing the line.

Oh my God.

Her chestnut brown hair spilled loose, soft bangs brushing her cheeks like they wished they could stay there. Just enough makeup to draw out her natural beauty, the kind you couldn’t fake. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. She wasn’t just beautiful; she possessed the face of a goddess. The powerful attraction softened into a gentle warmth. The draw to her deepened.

As she sat, her eyes landed on the red rose. “For me? You shouldn’t have!”

A smile graced her face as she motioned to a waiter. He appeared promptly.

“Yes, madam, are you ready to order?” he said with a mock-Harvard accent.

Her eyes narrowed. “Not yet. Could you bring a tall glass of water for this lovely rose, please?”

She glanced at Josh, eyes softening. There was a look. More than appreciation? He couldn’t tell. The way she held his gaze sent something sharp and unfamiliar sliding through his chest. The rose seemed too simple, yet too much. She held his eyes for a moment, and his cultural constraints vanished, gone like Bobby blinking out of a room and reappearing on the far side of the city. His eyes lingered on hers—deep, captivating hazel. “My God, Jacqui, you’re radiant. Incredible. So graceful for a girl from the Lower East Side.”

He dropped his head at the Lower East Side reference. A beat later, her hand’s warmth brushed his cheek. He lifted his head, their eyes locking again, the air between them charged. He covered her hand with his. “Wow, Jacqui. You are something else.”

———

Jacqui held his gaze, searching for what lay behind that stare. The pain and torment of Bobby showed in his eyes, or maybe something else lurked there. But what? She wanted to help the man. Fix what she hadn’t during the sessions.

“Josh,” she said. “We felt a connection in the sessions. We were so distracted by each other that I didn’t do my job. I’m so sorry. Let me fix that. Please—” She waved a napkin in surrender.

“One glass of water for the rose. May I take your order for at least drinks and appetizers?” the waiter said, interrupting, his tone indignant and arrogant.

She glared at him, sick of that phony accent and the arrogance he wore like a badge. In her broadest Lower East Side accent, she said, “Nah. So ya attended Harvard wid that accent?”

The waiter’s eyes widened as he stepped back. “Nah!”

Jacqui switched to a perfect Harvard accent. “Please send over a waiter with a proper accent and a better attitude.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the waiter said.

As Josh smirked, she caught the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. A glance from the waiter acknowledged their common roots in the Lower East Side before he walked away. She gracefully placed the rose in the glass.

“Sorry about that,” Jacqui said with a smile. “I hate falseness and arrogance, especially when they’re served together, steaming, like that guy.”

He returned the smile. “No problem. It was entertaining to watch you deal with that jumped-up little prick.”

They both snickered and picked up their menus.

After ordering from a pleasant server, they returned to their conversation.

“So …” Jacqui began, her voice soft but firm. “Please understand, this isn’t a therapy session. I can see how much Bobby meant to you. I’d like to hear about him. He sounded fascinating.”

“Umm … Well … At the funeral, I realized he was the brother I never had …”

She studied him as his eyes tightened. With every story he told about Bobby, she sank deeper into thought, trying to piece him together. If she could understand him, maybe she could help Josh find peace. For ten minutes, he relived moments with Bobby: shared jokes, late-night adventures, tense cases. She sat still, listening, reminding herself this wasn’t a therapy session. His words revealed the unspoken love and respect between them. The only odd thing she noticed was Josh’s frequent use of the present tense when speaking of his friend. Grief—a cruel mistress—could mess with your head. Josh’s shoulders relaxed as he finished the mini-epic The Adventures of Josh and Bobby in New York.

“So, enough about me and Bobby. Let’s talk about you,” Josh said.

They both laughed. She met his eyes, and the weight in Josh’s gaze had lifted. Jacqui was right. He had no one else to talk to about Bobby, and had bottled up his emotions. So much for it not being a therapy session.

Josh let go of a sigh. Was that a release? Yes, some pain easing away. That was why her work mattered to her, and no doubt there.

She enjoyed chatting with him for the next four hours over dinner. During the conversation, she explained that growing up in a rough neighborhood taught her more about people than any textbook ever could. Psychology—her first passion—had been her way out, but even after NYU, she had no interest in chasing private practice or cushy research jobs. That was why she worked at the station house as a psychologist, giving back to the ones who carried their own kind of scars. It was also why she took pro bono cases whenever she could. She went on to explain her love of art, how she could lose hours wandering galleries, never tied to one style.

He nodded as she spoke, his smile appearing when she mentioned her thing for hiking and camping.

“I love all that stuff. The hike to the campground, etcetera. None of this glamping garbage,” he scoffed. “More like ‘glam-pretending-you’re-roughing-it,’ right?”

She giggled. Turned out their first common ground was camping. Not the glammed-up kind with soft beds and Wi-Fi. She admitted to being a bookworm, especially when it came to psychological thrillers. To finish, she mentioned the piano, something she had been playing since she was a kid.

“Wow! The piano? Maybe you could teach me,” he said.

If it meant they could spend more time together, she’d give it a go. “Sure, we could try.”

Now it was her turn to listen as he talked about hiking, camping, and anything that got him outdoors. He mentioned New Milton, Connecticut, like it was his second home. The gym came up too, every other day, part of his routine. She could probably sharpen up her fitness regime, maybe pick up a few of his techniques along the way. She discovered he quizzed himself with puzzles, honing his mental agility. He explained how it helped him with his detective work.

“Puzzles, huh?” Jacqui tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Might not be a bad idea to sharpen my brainpower.”

And then he revealed he played chess.

“Well,” she said with a grin, “I’ll enjoy beating you at that.”

“Challenge accepted,” he said, imitating Barney from How I Met Your Mother. “It will be ‘Legen—wait for it—dary.’”

They laughed.

“I love that show!” Jacqui said.

“Me too.”

Their hands brushed as they reached for the breadbasket, and a spark lingered—or maybe she just imagined it. They kept bumping hands after that. When he gave her a playful nudge over a shared joke, their laughter tangled together. Everything beyond their table slipped out of focus. She lost track of time until …

“I’m sorry, sir and madam, but we are closing for the night,” the waiter said.

Her gaze lifted. Only the waiter remained. The rest of the staff had gone home she guessed, leaving chairs stacked and lights dimmed low. They’d been so caught up in each other, she hadn’t noticed the place empty out.

“I am so sorry.” Josh reached into his wallet, pulled out a hundred and offered it to the waiter. “For your trouble. For holding you up.”

“That’s really not necessary, sir. I merely saw two young people enjoying each other’s company and carried on clearing up as I waited.”

The chef walked through the restaurant, his apron stretched taut against his ample belly. He bid goodnight to the waiter and his clients.

“No. I insist,” Josh said.

“Very well,” the waiter said, taking the bill. “My name is Alfonso, and I’m the maître d’ here. Next time you call to reserve, ask for me by name. I’ll give you a better table and serve you myself with pleasure. I’ll bring the machine.” He slipped the bill into his pocket and walked away.

A few moments later, out of the corner of her eye, Jacqui caught him slipping the bill into the tip jar for the staff. She met Josh’s gaze. Maybe this was the start of something. The restaurant felt different now. Hers, somehow. And if she read his expression right, maybe his too. Theirs.

They paid and made their way out.

Outside, she stood on the sidewalk facing him as they basked in the afterglow of their date. Jacqui placed her hand on his neck, pulling him towards her. He flinched a little as she moved forward. She moved to his left ear and whispered, “I like you, Josh. A lot. Let’s take this slowly, please.”

She pulled back and kissed his cheek, her lips barely touching his skin.

“Not tonight, Josephine. I have a headache,” he joked, lightening the mood.

The pull of attraction stirred, tempting her toward that first kiss. She kept still and fought the urge.

They laughed at his joke, and he stepped back. Her understanding smile met his retreat. Another brick set on a foundation of respect. Maybe they’d glimpsed a future that neither minded seeing.

“Let’s do this again, Josh. Soon, please. Bowling?” she said.

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away, but I’m not very good at it.”

“Should be fun when I kick your ass, then.”

“I’ll message you.” Josh turned and walked away.

She lingered, her eyes following as he made his way to the car. Great buns and no doubt. After a moment more, she turned and headed home, her heart light, mirroring her buoyant steps.

Unknown to her, two figures emerged from the darkness, each trailing a separate path as the couple parted.