Up in Smoke - Tessa Bailey Page 0,50

her fingers in his collar and tugged him down for a soft kiss. “I’m sorry I tried to blow you in the stairwell,” she whispered against his lips.

“Jesus.” A pained laugh escaped him. “Please don’t apologize for something like that ever again.”

“Okay.”

They shared a smile. He couldn’t seem to break eye contact with her. She seemed just as content to search his face. For what, he didn’t know. In his peripheral vision, he noticed that his mother had reentered the room. How long had she been standing there? Reluctantly, he straightened, turning his attention to his mother, who had a strange expression on her face.

She visibly shook herself and came forward to hand them their lemonade. Erin cupped the bottom of the glass to avoid their fingers brushing and murmured her thanks.

“So, do youse two work together?” Joanna asked, her familiar Bronx accent in full effect. “Let me guess, Erin is the queen in your deck of wild cards.”

Erin’s brow wrinkled. “Your what?”

“That’s what I’ve been calling it,” Connor explained while tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Since we’re all…”

“Cuckoo bananas?”

“Different from one another,” he amended. “Yeah, Mom, we work together.”

Joanna took a sip from her own lemonade and Connor could see the wheels turning in her head. If Erin worked with him, she had to be a criminal. He could sense Erin’s discomfort and knew she’d picked up on the subtext behind her mother’s question. God, maybe he’d overstepped by bringing her here. She’d had a hard enough day without this criminal version of Meet the Parents.

Before he could deflect any more questions in her direction, Erin squared her shoulders. “It’s okay to ask me what I did. I can’t even say I paid for my crimes, because I didn’t. I got out of prison faster than a whore in a convent.” She drained her lemonade. “I’m sorry. I’m not Topanga. Your son deserves a Topanga.”

His mother arched a meticulously plucked eyebrow at him. “Who the hell is Topanga?”

“It’s not important,” he said firmly. Christ, this conversation had gotten away from him. “Neither is what Erin did. She’s important. That’s it.”

“Fine.” His mother held up both hands. “Keep all the fun details to yourself. Don’t entertain a single woman with something interesting for once.” She sucked her teeth. “All I got is Dr. Oz, son. You can’t blame me for wanting the gossip. Damn.”

Erin’s lips twisted, but Connor could see the smile underneath. “You want to hear about the time I rented a limousine to be my getaway driver?”

Joanna leaned forward. “Now we’re talking.”

Chapter Thirteen

Erin glared at Connor from across the squad meeting, twirling a Bic lighter between her fingers. She’d purposefully sat as far away from him as possible. His day of zero pleasure had passed and he still wouldn’t give in. Last night after they’d returned from Joanna’s apartment, she and Connor had traded bedrooms so she could be near the fire escape. Every time they’d passed in the hallway while transferring their things, she’d brushed a hand over his ass or planted kisses on his neck. Any minute now, she’d thought, he’s going to beg for me. Beg for me to take away the visible ache in his pants.

Nope. Nothing.

So she’d slipped into bed behind him one minute past midnight and trailed her hand down his stomach, her palm already lathered with lotion. Her body had been humming with the anticipation of stroking his heavy length, feeling his big body shudder against her when he finally came. She thought he’d welcome her, welcome the pleasure he so obviously needed. Instead, he’d turned over onto his stomach and growled at her to go back to bed.

This morning, he’d been dressed and ready to leave before she’d even stumbled out of her bedroom. He’d handed her a cup of coffee. And winked.

Someone really needed to remind him he lived with a pyromaniac with a social disorder.

It probably didn’t help her street cred that she’d failed to shock his mother last night. She even kind of sensed that Joanna…liked her. As if her son bringing home a convicted felon was right up there with winning the lottery. She’d sensed no judgment. Only a desire to know her better. She couldn’t really describe how that made her feel. Nervous she’d end up being a letdown. Kind of hoping she would be so she could pretend not to give a shit. Relating to other people whom she didn’t stand to gain anything from monetarily was confusing as all get-out. Especially