I drag Beau into our room, and as the door clicks shut under his hand, he rests his forehead against the wood, broad shoulders bunched up tight.
I ease into him and slide my hands around his waist. “It’s going to be fine. You’ve got this,” I whisper against his back.
Beau rounds on me immediately, seeing right through my supportive act. "You're not going in there."
Damn it.
"Yes, I am. We both know it makes the most sense. Van can barely walk."
Beau pouts, all six foot whatever of him turning sulky. “He’ll fit right in with all the old gangsters and fighters.”
When I open my mouth to speak, he cuts me off.
"Lisa, these people—" He runs his hand down the length of my ponytail and along my arms.
"Are dangerous. I know. That's literally my job, Beau."
I stand, hands on hips, and stare at him, willing him to get it through his thick head that I’m not some girl wanting to playcops and robbers, and that this is what I’m literally paid to do. And Amber’s disappearance is my case.
He's pacing now, agitated, hands raking through his hair. "You don't know what you're walking into."
Again, pretty standard. Any time a member of the force gets a call out, you never know what’s coming next. That’s what we’re trained for.
"You're right, I don't. Not completely. But I know that you're not thinking about this like a professional right now."
He looks at the floor, tendons in his jaw flexing and the muscles in his neck straining hard.
"You're thinking about it like my boyfriend."
Snapping his head up, he spears me with a look so intense, it steals my breath away.
"I'm more than your…" He stops. Reconsiders.
While he’s thinking, I turn and walk toward the bathroom.
He follows behind me, arms thrown out to the sides. "Fine. Maybe I am. That doesn't change anything."
When I turn, he’s right there, closing the distance between us, and I put my hand on his chest, right over his heart.
"Come here," he murmurs, watching my lips, as I slide my hands up and around his neck.
Now I’m the one shaking my head, trying not to get waylaid. "I'll be careful. I promise."
His eyes search mine, looking for a way to win this argument. “I can’t.”
Giving him my best sad, defeated look, I plop down on the toilet lid and hang my chin to my chest, looking at my hands.
He crouches in front of me, one hand resting on the old cast iron radiator beside us for balance, as his face levels with mine, and the guilt of what I'm about to do nearly stops me.
Then I do it anyway.
His wrist is in the cuff before he registers what's happening. By the time he pulls back, I've hooked the second cuff around the radiator pipe and clicked it into place on his other arm.
He stares at the cuffs. Then at me. Then back at the cuffs.
"Much as I'd love an action replay of last night," he says slowly, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice, "I don't think this is the time."
His cocky smile is adorable.