He studies my face for a moment, his expression full of compassion. “Give it to me straight, Sherlock. You doing okay? This thing with Peter?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. I want answers. I’ll be doing better when I have them.”
He nods, obviously weighing my words. “Does that mean you’re going to write an article about your uncle?”
I concentrate on ripping apart my donut. “The jury’s out on that one. I want answers, but I’m not sure I want to write up something so personal.”
“I get that.”
“Right now, I’m just focusing on the DSF profile.”
“Which is why you’re going shopping. And who’s your escort?”
“I just have the one ticket. I couldn’t—” I stop myself, leaning back in my chair as I study his face. “Hang on. Are you going to the DSF gala? Never mind, of course you are.”
Lamar Gage loves his life as a detective, but he’s also got a shit ton of money and is a regular and frequent contributor to various charities. Especially when the contribution scores a ticket to an event that allows him to see and be seen. “Have you got a date?”
He meets my eyes, and I see a flicker of heat. “I do now.”
I shoot him a sharp glance. “You know that’s not happening.”
“Would it be that bad?
“Yeah,” I say. “It would.”
“Ouch.”
“Dammit, Lamar.” I hear the exasperation in my voice as I rake my fingers through my hair. “Is that really what you want? To break up Sherlock and Watson? Because you’re one of my best friends, and since I only have two, that’s saying a lot.”
We came close to getting naked one drunken night before I put on the brakes. And while I think he regrets that, I don’t. All I regret is letting it get that far in the first place.
“Ellie—”
“No. I’m not losing you, and if we fuck—even just for fun—that is exactly what would happen.”
He winces, presumably at my harsh tone and blunt vocabulary. Maybe because the other tables can undoubtedly hear us. “It doesn’t have to.”
“It ends, Lamar. I screw a guy, it’s over. Either they leave or I do.” That’s an exaggeration, of course. The only guy who ever left me is Alex. Now I know better. Now I don’t give a guy the chance. I’m the one who walks. Always.
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“But it does.” I know myself. More importantly, I know my demons. And if we got involved, I really would screw it up.
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” I’m softer now, my words gentler. “You mean too much to me. And I’m not going to risk losing you.”
For a moment, everything stops. Even the birds go silent. Then he nods. “Yeah, well, I love you, too.”
I melt with relief, then wipe away a tear. “We’re okay?”
His shoulders sag. “Always.” He swallows the rest of his coffee. “Okay. You’re staying at Brandy’s, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll grab a bite, then hit the gala. Okay?”
“Perfect.”
He nods. “Am I your arm candy? Or are we on a covert mission?”
I grin. This is why I love Lamar. “Totally arm candy. But you have your uses, too.”
“Do I?” He adds a leer to his voice, but this time I know he’s joking.
“Down, boy.” I take a sip of coffee, then lean back in my chair. “You’ve been here about as long as Saint has, right? What’s your impression of the guy?”
“I thought reporters were supposed to ask laser-focused questions. Do you want my opinion as a detective? Or just as a guy in the community?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Honestly? Not really. As a detective, Saint’s not on my radar at all. As far as I know, there’ve been no complaints by him or about him.”
“And as a guy in the community, what do you think of him?”
“I don’t, actually. He’s got a bit of celebrity because of his money and the foundation, but he’s not a publicity hound. He keeps to himself, doesn’t seek out opportunities to be photographed and plastered all over social media. He only bumps my radar on days like today.”
“The gala, you mean?”
“Right. Other than that…” He trails off with a shrug. “He seems okay. And genuine. I know that he personally gives to the annual police charity, and the DSF does as well. He’s also funded some things we wanted that were out of our budget. Extra servers, computers, tech for the patrol cars, that kind of thing.”
I nod, taking it all in. “You’re saying he’s active in the community?”
“Yeah. Well, actually no. Not him. But the foundation is. The man himself? He’s as private as all the articles say he is, but I figure he’s paid for the privilege.”
“Is all that stuff about him sleeping around bullshit?” The question is out before I can call it back, but if Lamar thinks it’s weird, he doesn’t comment.
“Oh, I hear things. I don’t think he’s quite the horndog the tabloids would like to make him.”
An unwelcome wave of relief crashes over me, because why the hell should I care anymore?
“But he’s not a monk, either,” Lamar says. “And even there, he’s private.”
I nod thoughtfully, wishing the thought of a parade of women through Alex’s bedroom didn’t grate on me like fingers on a chalkboard. Shouldn’t. Care. Remember?
After all, he isn’t even Alex anymore. He’s Devlin Saint, and I need to keep remembering that.
Lamar snags the last of the six donuts we’ve devoured. “Pretty softball questions for a hard-ass reporter.”
I roll my eyes, but otherwise ignore his snark. “One more thing. What did you mean when you said he paid for the privilege of privacy?”
“Oh, you know. He throws his money around town. That earns him some respect. Keeps him out from under the microscope.”
“Like?”
“The library renovation, for one. And the park that abuts the foundation and extends down to the tidal pools. The foundation not only donated the land, but also pays all the maintenance for the park. Saves tax dollars. Might just be a community relations maneuver, but it’s still a great park.”
“I thought the foundation’s mission was big stuff. Like funding humanitarian organizations around the globe. That kind of thing.”
“Yeah, it does that. But he’s gone on record saying that part of doing good works is to watch the backs of those around you. I remember the press release he issued when the DSF financed the creation of the park. He said that he fell in love the first time he came to this town, and that he wants to make sure—”
“Fell in love with Laguna Cortez you mean.” My pulse is pounding, and I feel hot all over.
“I’m sure that’s what he meant, but it’s not what he said. I remember thinking it was an odd way to phrase it.”
“Oh.”
“What?” He crumples his paper cup. “You think it means something?”