11

The first was a business account with a photo of him dressed in a suit. I clicked on the profile and learned he was a divorce attorney with a law firm in Downtown Crossing.

I knew the location well.

Dylan’s office was a few buildings over.

I backed out and clicked on the second listing, which was Smith’s personal profile. Even though I was a little hazy on what he and Joe looked like, I didn’t remember Smith being so handsome.

But he was and extremely easy to stare at.

His features were sharp and rich.

His smile was inviting.

He had a warmth to him where Dylan was so cold.

I focused on the pictures, and what I learned within the first several rows were that Smith was active and outdoorsy.

He biked.

Ran.

And he ate.

There were photos of food from restaurants all over the city.

The more I continued to explore, I saw shots that he’d taken from different spots around the world.

Japan.

Dubai.

Alaska.

Peru.

I scrolled through more.

Two years back.

Three.

Smith’s life was fascinating.

He didn’t waste a second.

He didn’t live with regret.

He just lived.

And he lived hard.

We certainly didn’t have that in common.

When I reached the end, I worked my way back to the last shot he’d posted.

It was of him and Joe.

At the bar.

The night I had found them in the alley.

I checked the comments. There was nothing in there that updated me on Joe’s status.

I had to know.

So, I tapped Smith’s profile and clicked Send Message, and then I started to type.

Me: Hi, Smith. I’m Alix Rayne. We met last night in the alley. Anyway, I just wanted to see how you and Joe are doing.

In all the years I’d worked for the city, I’d never followed up with anyone before.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care.

If anything, I cared too much. That was why I’d chosen this field.

It just wasn’t appropriate to reach out.

This situation was no different.

But it was.

Because I hadn’t been on the other end of the phone.

Because I had found them and offered help.

I set my cell on my lap and reached for the tablet on the nightstand.

The blinds fully opened after I pressed a button, and the TV turned on.

HGTV.

The show was about designing a new master bathroom.

Mindless.

Just the way I liked it.

I watched it for only a few seconds before a notification came across the screen of my phone.

Smith had replied.

Smith: Hey, Alix. Thanks for checking on us. Joe’s still in the hospital. If he continues to show progress, the doctor says he’ll be discharged in a few days.

Me: And you?

I shouldn’t have written back.

I should have closed out the app and continued watching bathroom remodels.

But I remembered the look in Smith’s eyes.

The pain, the helplessness.

Smith: I’m doing all right.

Me: I’m relieved to hear that—and about Joe, too.

Smith: You were correct about his condition. He overdosed.

Me: I’m just glad he’s going to be okay.

Smith: I don’t think I ever thanked you for what you did. If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know if Joe would still be alive. He knows that—I’ve told him about you—and he’s grateful as hell.

Me: I’m happy I could help.

I set my phone back on my lap, and as I stared at the TV, I wondered if Smith would look at my pictures. If he’d want to know more about the person who’d assisted him in the alley.

There were only about twenty shots on my page.

They were all of sunny days.

That was the only reason I kept my profile public.

Smith: Joe isn’t in a place where he can thank you appropriately, but I can, and I’d like to. How about dinner? You pick the spot, and I’ll be there.

I finished reading his message and set my cell on the nightstand. I pressed the different buttons on the tablet that would shut the blinds and turn off the TV. Then, I tucked the blanket over my head while I tightened my body into a ball.

Even though it was dark under the covers, I looked across the mattress at the unwrinkled bottom sheet, at the coldness that I would feel if I touched his spot.

What the fuck have I done?

Twelve

Dylan

Three Years and One Month Ago

Alix and I were standing outside Quincy Market, holding our to-go boxes of chocolate cake, opened, with several forkfuls missing from each piece. I’d asked about her shift, which had started at midnight, and she was telling me about one of the calls she had been on. It involved an elderly couple, married for sixty-seven years. The husband had fallen down a short flight of stairs. Alix believed he had fractured his hip.

She stared at the cake as she spoke.

And I gazed at her, checking out the way she speared off another bite.

How she stuck the fork between her lips.

How the utensil came out of her mouth clean.

It was incredibly sexy.

So was she.

She didn’t even have to try. It came natural to her.

As natural as her looks.

A beauty that went so deep, she didn’t need makeup to enhance it.

She didn’t wear much of it anyway. There wasn’t anything on her lips, no color on her lids, just thick lashes and some pink on her cheeks.

She had no idea how gorgeous she was.

If I told her, I was sure she wouldn’t believe me.

Alix’s confidence came when she talked about her job.

I could tell how much she loved it by the passion in her voice, by the way she described how she’d helped the old man.

What she did was something I hadn’t been able to visualize at first. Now that I’d spent more time with her, it was all I could see.

Damn it, I wanted to touch her.