I look away as he undoes the belt and pulls his pants down. “I’ll drive home,” I whisper. Yawning. Again.

“No, you won’t.”

A drawer opens and closes. The bed dips twice before the light goes out completely and he lies next to me.

“Spare room?” I ask.

“Nope. This is the only bed in my house.”

The covers move as he tucks in.

“I’ll drive,” I repeat, forcing myself up.

Drake grabs me and yanks me across the bed, forcing my back against his chest. “God, shut the fuck up, Noelle,” he mutters, curving his arm around my stomach and trapping me against it. “It’s two thirty in the fucking morning. I told you that. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to sleep right here.”

“I can’t.” I tilt my hips away from him. “You’re poking me.”

“I’m gonna a whole lot more than poke you if you don’t be quiet. I’m pissed as hell at you, so unless you want to disturb the whole neighborhood with a blazing fight, get your ass back against my cock and go to fucking sleep.”

I could let him sleep then sneak out, right?

“And don’t even think about escaping while I sleep. I might shoot you.”

I move back against him, my heart thudding. “That’s my line.”

“So shoot yourself.” He yawns. “Just shut up.”

“Okay.” A moment passes, and my eyes close as the warmth from his body calls sleep back to me. “Night, Drake,” I whisper.

“Night, bella.” He kisses my hair, and it’s the last thing I know before sleep wins.

Sleeping next to Detective Drake Nash is like being a piece of coal inside a blazing fire. My feet have been hanging out of the covers for hours waiting for some alien monster to come and nibble on my toes.

At some point during the night, I rolled over into him and he ended up with both arms around me. I don’t know how it happened, but it’s probably the reason I’m so warm right now. I need a cold shower or ten.

I tilt my head back to look at him. My fingers twitch where they’re resting on his defined stomach, but it’s his hair that has a smile creeping onto my face. If I thought it was messy during the day, I was so wrong. It’s sticking up in all kinds of directions, one crazy, loose curl brushing his forehead.

God. His hair is the best thing about him.

Well, it isn’t, but since that’s encased in his underpants and his eyes are closed, his hair wins right now.

His eyelashes are fanned across his cheeks, and his breaths are slow and easy. The only parts of him that aren’t relaxed are his fingers. They’re holding me just as tight, and I don’t think he was kidding when he said last night that he’d shoot me if I tried to get away. He’s sleeping so deeply right now that, if I moved, he’d wake up in cop mode and think I was an intruder.

Which means I’m also stuck here next to my personal radiator until he wakes up. Thankfully, the clock on his nightstand reads 6:57 and the alarm icon is flashing next to a 7:00.

I need coffee. And to pee.

I tighten my muscles in case my bladder decides that three—oh, now, two—minutes is too long for her to wait to relieve herself. Really, at twenty-eight, I should have more control over her than she does me, but I did drink two glasses of wine last night before I fell asleep in my car.

In my car. In his driveway. What a dick.

Slowly, I move my hand from his stomach, and he reaches out with ninja reflexes and grabs it. My hand. Not his stomach.

I squeal at his tight grip, and he gazes down at me through barely-opened eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice way too clear for someone who just woke up.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to feel you looking at me like I’m your favorite cupcake.”

I purse my lips. “You’re a shit.”

“A shit who let you sleep in his bed,” he answers, closing his eyes again.

The alarm goes off in the form of a radio, and he reaches over and thumps the top of it.

“You know there’s a button to shut that up, right?” I say.

“Yep. I’m taking you to the store to see if they can install one on you.”

“I can still shoot you if I can’t talk, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t let me sleep here. You made me.”

“I know.”

“Is that all you’re saying?”

“I’m wondering why it’s taking you so long to get coffee.”

I prop myself up on my elbow. “Because I’m your guest and you’re still in bed, perhaps?”

He slowly opens his eyes and sighs heavily. “Really? You’re my guest?”

“Sorry. Did I say guest? I meant prisoner. Look.” I try rolling over, and he smiles lazily, deliberately tightening his grip. “Trapped. You’ve virtually kidnapped me.”

“Why do you think I need a mute button installed on you? It’d be no fun if you could scream.”

“You’re hard work on a morning,” I sigh. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“You’re hard work all the damn time,” he returns, letting me go and sitting up. “That door right there.”

“You don’t have a spare bedroom but you have an en suite?” I swing my legs out and pause, perched on the edge of his bed.

“Well, yeah. I don’t need a spare bedroom, but I have to pee at three a.m. like everyone else.” He laughs.

I roll my eyes and reach for my shorts before realizing that putting them on right now is totally useless since I’ll have to take them off again in five seconds. So, with a glance over my shoulder, I notice that Drake is sitting on his side, his back to me.

I get up and run into the bathroom.

“I still saw your ass!” he yells as I close the door and slide the lock.

Fucker.

Mind you, judging by the mascara beneath my eyes, his seeing my ass is the least of my problems.

“We need to talk,” he says as soon as I leave the bathroom.

I tug my tank down in an effort to cover my panties. “I swear that’s our tagline. ‘We need to talk.’ And yes, we do, but I can’t understand anything except yabber-yabber until coffee happens.”

“Better get your ass into my kitchen, then, huh?”

I grab my shorts from the floor and pull them up, buttoning them. And this is why I should never wake up next to Drake Nash.

He’s pissed me off already.

I lick my thumb and scrub at the circles under my eyes as I stomp downstairs, shoes in hand. My purse on the counter is the first thing I see, and I peek inside to see if everything is there. Since “everything” is kind of a wide term for all the crap that’s usually in my purse, I’m going for yes after seeing my phone and keys.

I dig deep for my compact mirror and pull a hand wipe out of the little packet. There’s some kid character on the packet, so it’s left over from the last time I babysat Silvio and Aria, but hand wipes are wet wipes, and that’s exactly what I need.

Drake appears in the doorway, his hair damp and slicked back from his face, curling at the base of his skull. He’s dressed in his usual white shirt and black pants with a black tie wrapped around his fist.

“Don’t you do makeup in the bathroom?”

“I’m not doing it. I’m removing it.” I wipe the last black smudge from my cheek and snap the mirror shut. Then I ball the wipe up and throw it in the trash. “I’m going home to get changed and get coffee. I already know I have to be at the station.”

“Eight,” Drake confirms. “And I’m coming with you. You’re not getting out of this conversation, either, sweetheart.”

“I’m not getting out of it. I’m postponing it. There’s a huge difference.” I slip my shoes on and grab my purse.

“And I’m still coming with you. I’ll make coffee while you change. Problem solved.”

Maybe for you, I want to say. Not for me though. I don’t want to talk about whatever he wants to talk about. I want to be filled in on Vince’s death so I can go to my office and do my thing. That’s it.

I don’t even want this investigation anymore.