…
Ford flipped the deadbolt on the hotel room door and stayed there with his back up against the wall and watched Gina take a weaving path as she paced in front of the bed. The woman should never play poker—especially not at the Hartigans’ weekly game. She was nothing but a jumbled set of tells. The way she fiddled with the handle of her purse. The way her gaze flicked from one part of the room to another, studiously avoiding him. The way her steps seemed both hesitant and speedy. The Hartigan siblings would empty her kitty of pennies before the fourth hand.
Of course, that wasn’t the only reason why he couldn’t bring her to play poker. The wedding planner, with her cute blushes and awkward nervousness, was Gina fucking Luca. Sister to Rocco and Paul Luca, two neighborhood loan sharks with delusions of grandeur. That her name had never come up in the task force’s briefings wasn’t a surprise. The Lucas were bottom feeders, no matter how well-informed they were about the Esposito organization.
So why had he brought her back into his room? It sure wasn’t because it gelled with standard operating procedure to invite a relative of known crime associates into his hotel room while he was wearing only a sheet. If internal affairs knew, his ass would be missing several bite-sized chunks out of it.
Finally, she stopped, crossed her arms in front of her stomach, and lifted her chin a few inches before her gaze dropped from his. “Well, what did you want?”
“You’re Gina Luca.” The words came out because he had no idea what else to say.
She shrugged. “And?”
“Your brothers are Paul and Rocco Luca.”
The tip of her nose turned red, and a splotch of color appeared at the base of her throat. “This is what you wanted to talk about? My family tree?” She tightened her arms around her midsection. “Well, my mom’s Barbara, my dad’s Sal, and my grandfather is Big Nose Tommy, well, was is probably a more accurate description. He disappeared twenty years ago.”
Disappeared. Yeah, that was one way to put probably wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the harbor.
“You need a date to Grandma’s birthday party, and you just told your brothers that I’m your boyfriend.” Okay, not the smoothest of lines or a smart move according to regulations, but he’d never claimed to be the suavest Hartigan in Waterbury.
She snorted. “That was because I didn’t want to have to bail my brothers out of jail because they figured knocking you out cold was the honorable thing to do. Now if that’s all, I’ve got to go.”
So she had idiot brothers, too. He could identify. He needed to step to the side, open the door, and let her go back to whatever life she led. Instead, he stood there like a stump—useless and in the way.
“I’ve been where you’re at,” he said out of fucking nowhere.
One side of her mouth kicked up into an almost smile. “Standing in a hotel room with your panties in your purse?”
He chuckled unexpectedly. “Not quite.” He shoved his hand through his hair. Where in the hell was this coming from? He didn’t talk about this shit. What was next? A look into his feelings about fighting for every case that came his way because everyone on the force seemed to live under the same misconception as his brothers that he should have been a firefighter, like every other Hartigan male since his great-great-whatever got off the boat? Even the idea of doing that made him want to hurl. “I’ve been the one who didn’t quite fit in with my family.”
She rolled her eyes and got some of the same attitude she’d had when she was telling her brothers to take a flying leap. “I have a hard time believing that.”
“Trust me, it’s true.” If she only knew.
Gina just gave him a look that screamed whatever and started toward the door. “Look, I’m sure you’re Poor Mr. Misunderstood, but I’ve got two overprotective brothers who are going to be watching me like hawks after this disaster, a business I’m fighting to get off the ground, and a Victorian that I thought would be a simple renovation, which it would be, if I could keep a damn handyman for longer than a week. I don’t have the time or emotional energy to take a fake date to my grandmother’s party. Thank you but no.”
She stopped in front of him, just outside of arm’s reach, her gaze direct. Her look was the equivalent of a shy-but-still-doing-it-anyway fuck you, and he couldn’t help but grin at her. What could he say, he was an asshole, and her unconscious comfort level with her own vulnerability was endearing.
In his own family, bluster and bravado came in equal, mega-sized servings. To acknowledge weakness was to admit defeat. But with Gina, it didn’t come off that way. She was, as his mom would say, plucky. Sure, she was totally in over her head, but she was plucky—and that turned him on.
“So, this is it?” he asked, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
Her full lips disappeared, pressed into a thin line before she said, “Yeah, I’m sure you’re not used to hearing that.”
“Only because I don’t give up easily.” Still, he turned the doorknob and held the hotel room door for her.
“Goodbye, Detective Hartigan,” she said, her voice breathy.
Nope. He didn’t like the finality of that.
“Good night, Gina Luca.”
That telltale splotch of blush of hers bloomed even brighter at the base of her throat, and she hustled down the hall to the elevators. Unlucky for him, the doors opened as soon as she hit the down button. He watched until the doors closed and then went back inside before someone reported a perv in the hall wearing only a sheet.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving him alone, surrounded by the scent of Gina’s perfume. Too bad that’s all of her he’d ever get. A Luca and a detective on the organized crime task force went together like bulletproof vests and yoga.
After tonight, he wouldn’t be seeing her again. And he refused to examine the tightness growing in his chest at that thought.
Chapter Four
One Week Later…
Gina had a sledgehammer, and she knew what to do with it. Okay, she didn’t really know what to do with it, but she’d watched enough home renovation shows to look like it as she hefted the damn thing up and took aim at the half wall dividing the attic of her historical—fine, desperately in need of serious love—Victorian home into two rooms and cutting the flow of the space. The metal head of the sledgehammer made a satisfying thunk as it bashed through the poorly-constructed half wall for what felt like the millionth time that morning.
Arms aching from the effort of swinging the fifteen-pound hammer, she took a step back and set it down to admire her work. The half wall was toast.
Sure, there were still odds and ends she’d have to yank out of the floorboards, but the sun pouring in from the stained glass window on the east wall into the large open space left dots of color across the dusty hardwood floor that made her smile despite the mess.
The attic would be perfect for the new headquarters of Consider It Done Wedding Planning. She’d meet clients downstairs in the salon with its own door to the wide front porch, but this is where the magic would happen. The planning, the plotting, the everything coming together—that would be done here. If only she could take care of her other problems so easily.
Yeah, so she was doing a little home renovation therapy. Who would blame her? It had been seven days since she’d hightailed it through that hotel lobby, and she could still hear the cackling laughter from those asshole cops at the bar chasing after her.
Instead of thinking about it, though, she’d taken the DIY approach and pictured the cops’ faces on every piece of drywall she’d smashed through. Okay, she might have a little of her brothers’ Sicilian temper and lust for blood herself, she’d just figured out how to channel it better.
Now she no longer saw the jerks’ jeering faces in her dreams. Instead, she only saw Ford’s—and that was kind of worse, because she also heard his clit-whistle of a throaty groan every damn time she collapsed in bed at night. That was just unfair.
Had he been in on the whole humiliating charade and just played it off as being a total surprise to him? Possible, but she couldn’t get herself to believe it.
Anyway, it was nicer to pretend he hadn’t been. A girl like her needed the fantasy of a good man who didn’t lie or use people, who wanted her just because he did. All she had to do to make that happen was to bring her late-night fantasies to a grinding halt the moment before he told her he hadn’t left his hotel room key for her.
Kinda depressing thinking there, Regina.
Her inner voice wasn’t wrong. She swiped her water bottle off the floor and took a long drink. Time to keep moving forward and fixing up the home she’d inherited from her grandfather. The courts had declared a few months ago that the man she’d adored growing up and had been missing for twenty years was now officially deceased. And thinking about that was just going further down the rabbit hole that only led to sniffles and tubs of Rocky Road, which she wasn’t going to do because her life had been sad enough up until now. Things were finally going to change for her. She refused to let her looks or her family or her perpetual spinsterhood—hello, too much Austen on the bookshelf—stop her from doing what she wanted any longer.