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“Kid likes his chocolate,” Hayes comments, standing far too close for comfort. His eyes linger on me, seeming to see more than I’d like them to. They trace over my body in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.
Clearing my throat, I walk past the agent and enter the kitchen. Milo has emptied his chocolate loot onto the kitchen table and is meticulously sorting it into little piles by type.
“Wow,” I say, pulling down a bowl for him to put it in. “You really made out. Looks like you won’t have to go trick-or-treating next week,” I tease him.
Milo turns to me, unblinking. “Don’t joke like that, Lottie.” He is so serious that I just stare at him for a moment.
“Noted.” I ruffle his hair, only to catch my fingers in his wig. “You need a shower.”
“Lottie,” he whines.
“Not negotiable,” I tell him. “One more chocolate, and then you need to shower. It’s nearly nine.”
Right on time, he yawns, as though knowing the time made him tired. “You’re right. I will take a peanut butter cup up with me and shower. Will you be up to tell me a goodnight?”
“Always.” I redirect Milo to the hall, where Hayes watches on with warmth in his eyes.
“Hello, Agent Hayes.” Milo yawns again and mumbles something under his breath before he trudges up the steps to the shower.
“He’s exhausted.” Hayes walks into the kitchen and leans casually against the counter. His blue eyes track me as I sweep all the candy into the bowl and plop it on top of the fridge.
I wait patiently until I hear the water kick on upstairs before I turn to Agent Hayes, my eyes not daring to look in the mudroom and give away that we aren’t alone, even though I don’t know where Lyric is.
“Why are you here, Hayes?” I ask, my voice tinged with curiosity.
“Back to Hayes?” He sighs with a hint of disappointment. “I thought I’d earned a place on your good side with those pretzels.” There’s a playful pout to his words that endears him to me.
“You did,” I admit, but I won’t confess that I need to maintain some distance between us. I don’t know what’s going on between Desmond and me. Still, the possessive glint in his eyes when he looks at me suggests that any other man showing interest might incur his wrath. I don’t want to see Hayes hurt, not if I can help it, so I’ll try to keep him at arm’s length. The key word there is try.
Liar, you want all of them. All three of them.
“I thought you’d like to learn something,” Hayes teases, dangling information he knows I’ll find intriguing. His eyes twinkle with mischief, and his infectious smile is far too disarming and charming for me not to fall for it.
“Come on,” I say, retrieving two water bottles from the fridge and handing one to him.
“Nothing harder?” he asks, almost pouting as he accepts the water from my outstretched hand. “No whiskey? Vodka? Tequila?”
“You’re playing right into the stereotype of a hard-drinking cop,” I retort, settling into the corner of my couch, my favorite spot. It welcomes me as expected, conforming to my body and embracing me in the most comfortable way.
“Ouch,” Hayes replies, taking the spot he occupied before. “You’re not much of a drinker?”
“I don’t mind alcohol,” I explain, “but I’ve had Milo since I was eighteen. I couldn’t afford to drink or lose my awareness around him. A drink here and there is fine.” I open my water and almost gulp half of it in one go.
“My dad was a drunk,” Hayes admits, toying with his cap, his eyes momentarily losing focus. “I think it’s a knee-jerk reaction, you know? Socializing, having a drink.” He glances up at me from beneath his lashes. “I don’t think I’m a drunk like him, but I can sometimes feel myself slipping.” He clears his throat and hastily adds, “I’m not here for therapy, Charlotte.”
“Why are you here, Hayes?” I inquire, listening to Milo singing in the shower.
“I know why Sal died.” His bombshell sends a surge of adrenaline coursing through me. The bitterness floods my tongue, and I lick my lips as I breathe slowly. This is what I’ve been waiting for all week, a week that has felt like a lifetime.
The world seems to pressurize around me, pulsating as if the very air itself is breathing in and out. The only sound in the house is Milo’s singing.
“Tell me,” I whisper, even though I know Lyric is somewhere in the house. I peer past Hayes, who has his back to the kitchen and, by extension, the mudroom. I swear I see a shadow back there, but it could easily be a trick of my imagination.
“It’ll cost you, sweetheart,” Hayes says, his drawl low and enticing.
“What’s the price, Hayes?” The playful banter between us fills the air, sizzling and electrifying. It caresses my skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
“I want you to help me,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees. I can’t help but glance at his lips before meeting his eyes again.
