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While I power through the rest of my checklist with the single-minded focus of a caffeine addict on her last legs, I listen to my business law notes. Next, I hit the bathroom. The big one with the waterfall shower and a fancy toilet that washes your rear end. There’s a fancy lever handle on the door instead of a knob, which always throws me off, by the way. It’s one of those thick, real-wood doors, not the cheap hollow kind, with a fancy frosted glass window in the middle that blurs everything into vague, wobbly shapes.

I slide inside, making sure to shut the door firmly behind me. Not because I care about privacy. I just don’t need a certain black-furred gremlin leaving paw prints all over my freshly mopped floors. I sweep the tiles first, dump the dust into the trash, and prop the broom outside in the hallway so I can mop my way out of the bathroom.

I’ve barely started mopping when I hear a snuffling, scrabbling sound followed by a weird thunk. I glance at the door and see a black shape shoot past the door. Pepper, that little demon, loves to play with my cleaning tools.

I mop my way back to the door and rattle the knob.

Are you fucking kidding me? I rattle the handle harder, like maybe I’m the Hulk and brute strength is going to fix my life. Nope. The fancy lever stays locked, and I can see a black and red handle through the frosted glass. Oh my God. That freaking demon dog pushed the mop under the handle.

That’s the last freaking time I bring doggie treats with me.

I jiggle the handle again. Nothing.

Unbelievable.

Through the blurry glass, I see that little gremlin’s shadow stretched out on the master bed. Damnit.

I jam my hand into my pocket for my phone, fingers meeting nothing but lint and a crumpled receipt. My stomach drops as I remember leaving it on the bedside table—a precaution after my last three phones took swan dives into toilets. The most recent victim, a refurbished iPhone with a crack across the screen, had slipped from these same threadbare gray sweatpants with pockets so shallow they might as well be decorative. The memory of fishing it out, dripping and dead, makes me wince.

I slump back against the wall, instantly defeated. Fudge muffin. It looks like I’m stuck in here until Detective Vale gets home from work. When the class lecture running through my earbuds comes to an end, I’m left in the dead quiet. All I can hear is the loud snoring coming from the French Bulldog sleeping like a baby on the large king-sized bed.

I flop down on the edge of the tub and glare at the blurry, loaf-shaped shadow through the frosted glass. I can picture her smug little face, probably drooling on the comforter and plotting my doom.

Unbelievable. Literally the one time I’m ahead of schedule, the universe decides to lock me in a fancy marble bathroom without my phone. At least the fancy LED mirror has a digital clock in the right corner so I can watch my afternoon tick away while I’m stuck in here.

I’m not proud of this, but for the first three hours, I sit on the floor and wallow in my own self-pity. I’m hungry, I’m tired, and if I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to lose my freaking mind.

By seven p.m., I’m half-asleep on the bathmat, drooling on my arm. That’s when I hear a sharp little bark and a snuffling noise from the bedroom. My head snaps up so fast I almost give myself whiplash.

Through the blurry glass, I catch movement. The black blob launches itself off the bed, stubby legs scrambling, and I know that little demon is up to something.

There’s movement—a shadow, big and broad, crossing behind the frosted glass. For a split second, my brain short-circuits. Holy crap, is someone breaking in? My heart practically punches a hole through my ribs as the snuffling and scrabbling get louder, and then⁠—

A deep voice, cuts through the silence. “What have you gotten into, angel baby?”

I’m suddenly wide awake, hair standing up on my neck. Oh my God, it must be Detective Vale.

The doorknob jiggles. There’s a thunk as the mop handle falls. The door swings open.

Holy freaking cow. The gorgeous giant standing in the doorway is way the heck hotter than what I imagined he would look like. He’s huge. Like, takes-up-the-whole-doorway huge. Six foot something, with broad shoulders that fill out a suit like he was born wearing one. Way the heck hotter than my overactive imagination came up with.

His hair is dark, perfectly cut, with little streaks of silver at the temples that somehow make him look even more intense. His eyes are dark brown and sharp as hell, and he’s got a serious, no-nonsense expression that says he’s probably seen some things normal people only read about in murder mysteries.

There’s a scar just above one eyebrow. It should make him look scary, but instead, it just makes him hotter, a little more dangerous. Dark-stubble covers his square jaw, and his whole vibe screams I’m-in-control.

Honestly? He looks like trouble in a three-piece suit, or the kind of man who makes bad decisions feel like the best idea you've ever had. His presence fills the bathroom, and my heart is hammering so hard I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. One look from those coffee-dark eyes and girly parts are awake and singing. Kinda like the Frenchie who’s chanting the song of her people from the doorway.

CHAPTER TWO

JACK

There’s a strange silence in my apartment when I get home, which means one of two things: either Pepper is plotting a coup, or she’s already succeeded.

I do a sweep, keys in one hand, case file under my arm, ready for whatever disaster Pepper’s cooked up in my absence. The Frenchie is silent. Not a good sign. The kitchen is pristine, fridge re-stocked, notes from the cleaner propped against the Frenchie-shaped magnet I still can’t believe my brother bought me as a housewarming gift. I look around, noticing everything is where it should be. The counters sparkle, my coffee cup from this morning is washed and hanging on the cup rack near the coffeemaker. Nothing is out of place, but I sense something is off.

Pepper. My dog, my shadow, is nowhere.

I move to the bedroom, loosening my tie, expecting to find her burrowed under the duvet like always. Instead, she’s perched on the bed with her eyes fixed on the bathroom door. She looks guilty. Not her regular “I just ate your one of your favorite shoes” guilty, but “I really did it this time” guilty. I sigh. “What have you gotten into, angel baby?” I ask.