Holiday Grind by Cleo Coyle Page B

Eventually, however, Matt acknowledged my feelings (that I was never going to remarry him) as well as my dilemma (homeless-ness). With rents in the historic West Village among the highest in the city, I couldn’t afford a place of my own close to the Blend, and a commute would be hard on me, given the hours I put in running the place. So after he’d married Breanne, he gave up his key.
    “Sorry, Mike.” I set down the lamp. “I had a bad dream.”
    Without a word, he moved to the bed, his solid frame depressing the edge of the mattress. I put my arms around him and he pulled me close.
    Our embrace was far from glamorous. I wasn’t expecting him, so my nightwear was nothing fancy, lacy, or overtly alluring—just my usual oversized Steelers jersey and a pair of cotton underpants. With his leather holster still strapped across his shoulders, the butt of his service weapon dug into me a little, aggravating the bruise along my rib cage. I didn’t care. We hadn’t slept together in a week, and I missed the feel of him: the affection in his touches; the strength in his muscles; even the smell of his skin, warm and male and slightly citrusy from his aftershave. In a phrase, Mike Quinn felt good—and I liked hanging on to that goodness.
    After a minute, he leaned back and I studied him. His pale Irish complexion had gone to the ruddy side—no doubt from the business of starting the fire in my bedroom’s hearth. His dark blond hair was cropped (the usual) no-nonsense short. His jawline looked as square as ever, his chin dependably strong. Like most men in their forties, he had crow’s feet and frown lines etched into his face, badges of surviving life’s tragedies, fighting its battles. His blue eyes were as sharp as ever, too, and clearer than a glacial lake.
    On the street, Quinn’s eyes were stone-cold cop, unwilling to give away an iota of intention. For a long time, his true feelings were my own personal guessing game—at times a frustrating enterprise. ( Is the man only mildly irritated? I’d wonder. Or pissed enough to start shooting up the room? Is he turned on by my risqué references to his handcuffs? Or am I just making an ass of myself?)
    That kind of bewilderment was rare now. When we were alone together, Mike’s chilly cop curtain was swept aside. Whatever he was thinking or feeling, he usually showed me. ( Usually being a necessary qualifier—Quinn was, after all, still a man.)
    “You should have told me about Alf, Clare.”
    “You heard what happened?”
    “Not until I was ending my tour.” He gently brushed stray locks of hair from my cheek. “Sully and I picked up the radio chatter about Santa being shot near the Sixth, and I asked about the DOA. Langley told me it was you who found him.”
    I nodded. “He was shot point-blank. I found him in an alley.”
    Mike shook his head. “I got your voice mail. You didn’t say a word , Clare. Not one word in your message was about why you were calling.” His voice carried a bit of annoyance, but his eyes weren’t flashing with anything close to rebuke. Instead, his brows were drawn together with concern.
    “You were on duty. I didn’t want to worry you—”
    “Well, I sure as hell wish you had. I called you back the second I played your message. Why didn’t you pick up?”
    “I should have . . . I was just so drained by then. I couldn’t handle telling the whole story one more time—not over the phone. By then I’d already given the account to so many people: Langley, the two detectives, Matt—”
    “Matt?” Quinn stiffened. “ Allegro was there?”
    I nodded. “He showed up at the Blend for my tasting party. So I knew he was nearby, and when I called, he picked up right away.”
    Quinn’s jaw worked. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”
    “Stop apologizing. You were on duty. I knew if you weren’t answering your cell, you were probably in the middle of a crime scene of your own—”
    “I was.”
    I could tell from his tone it didn’t go