Page 33 of Newly Tied

“I’m sorry, sir,” Stowe informed him, clipping her words. “Family members of marshals at a crime scene need to be taken into immediate protective custody so that the marshal in question is not in any way impacted, thus keeping them from performing their duties to the best of their ability.”

“Oh,” Talia said. “So I need to come now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right, then,” she said, smiling big, and waved at the table. “Bye, you all, I had a great time. I hope to see you soon.”

They were all sad to see her go. No one gave a crap about me or Lang except Nicolette, who I was pretty sure had decided that taking a deputy US marshal home might not be the worst choice ever.

As we followed Stowe out, flanked by SOG team members on all sides, I texted Cody, saying I hoped he would give me a rain check.

The text I got back made me laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Lang grumbled, snatching my phone.

“That’s an invasion of privacy,” I protested, trying to grab it back.

He dodged, and when I got a chicken wing to the chest to keep me off him, I remembered he’d played hockey in college.

“He’s up for being a booty call day or night, huh?” He lifted his head, done reading the screen, and glared at me.

“What can I tell you, I’m irresistible. And now he’s got my number.”

“It’s not classy to screw the low-hanging fruit,” he said, shoving my phone at me.

“You made fruit sound very derogatory,” I pointed out, bantering with him like normal because it was expected. But what I really wanted to do was finish our earlier conversation. I needed to know what he’d been thinking about, what it was time for.

“You really did,” Talia agreed, picking up on our conversation. “You can call Cody a twink because he is, and I’m sure he would agree with you, but I find the word fruit unacceptable.”

“Listen, I⁠—”

“Why are you all grouchy suddenly? Did you want to stay with Nicolette and then take—oh,” she gasped, and everyone in the vicinity heard the dreamy sound in her voice followed by a slight whimper. “Look who it is.”

And there was Ethan Sharpe, looking as crisp and polished right after midnight as he did first thing in the morning. I had no idea what his genetic makeup was, and we weren’t nearly good enough friends for me to ask, but whatever each of his parents brought to the table made him particularly stunning. Not only was he tall and built like a swimmer, but he had dark-bronze skin, russet-brown eyes, and dressed better than all the rest of us except Kohn. I didn’t at all question how he was dating most of Chicago. I only wished Talia could see the player under the pretty wrapper.

“Who is it?” Lang asked.

“It’s Ethan,” she cooed, immediately veering away from us to reach him.

Lang stopped walking to glare at me. “Ethan?” he repeated.

“Oh, that is so not my fault,” I said defensively. “And I warned her.”

“Warned her about what?” Stowe asked. “That without a nametag, he can’t remember the names of all the women he’s been in bed with?”

I turned to her. “You?”

She scoffed. “Absolutely not. And I’ve heard that Sharpe doesn’t shit where he eats. But he dated my cousin Patrice, who was head over heels and ready to have babies with the man.”

“Lang here dates.” I emphasized the word. “Is it the same with Sharpe?”

“No. Not at all. But I’m not sure of the exact category what he does would fall under.”

“Booty call?” I offered.

“No, because it’s not solely sex. Patrice got dinner, a movie, and they saw each other the following night as well, just never again after that.”

“So two-night stand?”