Things We Hide from the Light (Knockemout Series, 2)
Things We Hide from the Light: Chapter 2

I closed my new front door on all six feet one inches of wounded, broody Nash Morgan.

“Don’t even think about it,” I muttered to myself.

Usually, I didn’t mind taking a risk, playing with a little fire. And that was exactly what getting to know Studly Do-Right, as the ladies of Knockemout had dubbed him, would be. But I had more urgent things to do than flirting away the sadness that Nash wore like a cloak.

Wounded and broody, I thought again as I lugged my files across the room.

I wasn’t surprised that I was attracted. While I preferred the enjoy ’em and leave ’em lifestyle, there was nothing I loved more than a challenge. And getting under that facade, digging into what put those shadows in his sad hero eyes would be exactly that.

But Nash struck me as the settling-down type, and I was allergic to relationships.

Once you showed an interest in someone, they started thinking it meant they had the right to tell you what to do and how to do it, two of my least favorite things. I liked good times, the thrill of the chase. I enjoyed playing with the pieces of a puzzle until I had the full picture, then moving on to the next one. And in between, I liked walking into my place, full of my things, and ordering food I liked without having to argue with anyone about what to watch on TV.

I dumped the box on the tiny dining room table and surveyed my new domain.

The apartment had potential. I could see why Knox had invested in the building. He’d never been one to miss potential under the surface of hot mess. High ceilings, battered wood floors, big windows overlooking the street.

The main living space was furnished with a faded floral couch facing an empty brick wall, the small but sturdy round dining table with three chairs, and some kind of shelving system built out of old crates under the front windows.

The kitchen, which was closed off into a tiny, drywalled box, was about two decades out of date. Not a problem since I didn’t cook. The counters were a garish yellow laminate that had long outlived their heyday, if they’d ever had one. But there was a microwave and a fridge big enough to store takeout and a six-pack, so it would work just fine for me.

The bedroom was empty, but it had a sizable closet, which unlike the kitchen was a requirement for me and my clothes-whorish tendencies. The attached bathroom was charmingly vintage with a claw-foot tub and an absolutely useless pedestal sink that would hold zero percent of my makeup and skincare collection.

I blew out a breath. Depending on how comfortable the couch was, I might be able to hold off on making a decision about a bed. I didn’t know how much longer I’d be here, how long it would take me to replace what I was looking for.

I hoped to hell it wouldn’t be long now.

I flopped down on the couch, praying for it to be comfortable.

It was not.

“Why are you punishing me?” I asked the ceiling. “I’m not a horrible person. I stop for pedestrians. I donate to that farm sanctuary. I eat my vegetables. What more do you want?”

The universe didn’t respond.

I heaved a sigh and thought about my town house in Atlanta. I was used to roughing it on the job. Returning from an extended stay in a two-star motel always made me appreciate my expensive sheets, my overstuffed designer couch, and my meticulously organized wardrobe.

This particular extended stay, however, was becoming ridiculous.

And the longer I stayed in town without a break or a clue or a light at the end of the tunnel, the antsier I got. On paper, maybe it looked like I was an impulsive wild child. In reality, I was simply following the plan I’d made a long time ago. I was patient and logical, and the risks I took were—almost always—calculated.

But weeks on end in a tiny town thirty-eight minutes from the closest Sephora without the slightest indication that I was on the right track were starting to wear on me. Hence the conversation with the ceiling.

I was bored and frustrated, a dangerous combination, because it made it impossible to ignore the niggling doubt in my head that maybe I didn’t enjoy this line of work as much as I once did. The doubt that had magically sprouted when things had gone south during the last job. Something else I didn’t want to think about.

“Okay, universe,” I said to the ceiling again. “I need one thing to go my way. Just one. Like a shoe sale or, I don’t know, how about one break in this case before I lose my mind?”

This time, the universe answered me with a phone call.

The universe was a jerk.

“Hi, Mom,” I said with twin pulls of annoyance and affection.

“There you are! I was worried.” Bonnie Solavita hadn’t been born a worrier, but she’d accepted the mantel that had been thrust upon her with an enthusiastic dedication to the role.

Unable to sit still during these daily conversations, I got off the lumpy couch and headed to the table. “I was carrying something up the stairs,” I explained.

“You’re not overdoing it, are you?”

“It was one suitcase and one flight of stairs,” I said, flicking the lid off the box of files. “What are you all up to?” Redirection was what kept my relationship with my parents intact.

“I’m on my way into a marketing meeting, and your father is somewhere under the hood of that damn car,” she said.

Mom had taken a longer-than-necessary hiatus from her job as a marketing executive so she could smother me until I moved three states away to go to college. Since then, she’d reentered the workforce and climbed the ladder as an executive in a national healthcare organization.

My father, Hector, was six months into his retirement from his career as a plumber. “That damn car” was the in-desperate-need-of-some-TLC 1968 Mustang Fastback I’d surprised him with for his birthday two years ago courtesy of a big, fat bonus check from work. He’d had one when he was a young, studly bachelor in Illinois until he’d traded it in on a fancy pickup truck to impress a farmer’s daughter. Dad had married the farmer’s daughter—my mother—and spent the ensuing decades missing the car.

“Did he get it running yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. He bored me to death with a twenty-minute dissertation on carburetors over dinner last night. So I bored him right back with an explanation of how we’re changing our advertising messages based on the demographics of East Coast suburban sprawl,” Mom explained smugly.

I laughed. My parents had one of those relationships that no matter how different they were from each other, no matter how long they’d been married, they were still the other’s biggest cheerleaders…and biggest annoyances.

“That’s very on-brand for you both,” I said.

“Consistency is key,” Mom sang.

I heard someone ask a rapid-fire question on her end.

“Go with the secondary deck for the presentation. I made some tweaks to it last night. Oh, and grab me a Pellegrino before you go in, would you? Thanks.” Mom cleared her throat. “Sorry about that, sweetie.”

The difference between her boss lady voice and her mom voice was a source of endless entertainment for me.

“No problem. You’re a busy boss lady.”

But not too busy to check in with her daughter on her designated days.

Yep. Between my mother’s iron-fisted itinerary and my parents’ desire to make sure I was okay at all times, I spoke to a parent nearly every single day. If I avoided them for too long, they had been known to show up on my doorstep unannounced.

“You’re still in DC, aren’t you?” she asked.

I winced, knowing what was coming. “Thereabouts. It’s a small town north of DC.”

“Small towns are where busy professional women get seduced by a rough-around-the-edges local business owner. Ooh! Or a sheriff. Have you met the sheriff yet?”

A coworker had gotten my mother hooked on romance novels a few years back. They took an annual vacation together that always lined up with some book signing somewhere. Now Mom expected my life to turn into the plot of a romcom at any moment.

“Chief of police,” I corrected. “And actually he lives next door.”

“That makes me feel a thousand times better knowing you have law enforcement next door. They’re trained in CPR, you know.”

“And a variety of other special skills,” I said dryly, trying not to be annoyed.

“Is he single? Cute? Any red flags?”

“I think so. Definitely. And I haven’t gotten to know him well enough to spot any. He’s Knox’s brother.”

“Oh.”

Mom managed to pack a lot into one syllable. My parents had never met Knox. They only knew that we’d dated—very briefly—when I was in college and had remained friends ever since. Mom mistakenly blamed him for her thirty-seven-year-old daughter still being single and ready to mingle.

It wasn’t that she was desperate for a wedding and grandkids. It was that my parents wouldn’t take an easy breath until I had someone in my life who was going to take over the role of worried protector. It didn’t matter how self-sufficient I’d become. To my mom and dad, I was still a fifteen-year-old in a hospital bed.

“You know, your father and I were just talking about getting away for the weekend. We could hop on a flight and be there this weekend.”

The last thing I needed was either of my parents shadowing me around town while I tried to work.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be in town,” I said diplomatically. “I could be heading home any day now.” Unlikely, unless I found something that led the case in a new direction. But still, at least it wasn’t an outright lie.

“I don’t understand how running corporate trainings can be so open-ended,” Mom mused. Fortunately, before I had to craft a plausible answer, I heard another muffled comment on her end. “I have to go, sweetie. Meeting’s starting. Anyway, let me know when you’re heading back to Atlanta. We’ll fly down and visit before you come home for Thanksgiving. If we time it right, we can go to your appointment with you.”

Yeah. Because I was going to go to a doctor’s appointment with my parents in tow. Sure. “We’ll talk about it later,” I said.

“I love you, sweetie.”

“Love you too.”

I disconnected and let out a sigh that ended on a groan. Even from hundreds of miles away, my mother still managed to make me feel like she was holding a pillow over my face.

There was a knock at my door, and I shot a wary look at it, wondering if my mom was waiting to surprise me on the other side.

But then came a thump that sounded like an irritated boot at the base of my door. It was followed by a gruff, “Open up, Lina. This shit is heavy.”

I crossed the room and yanked open the door to replace Knox Morgan, his pretty fiancée, Naomi, and Naomi’s niece, Waylay, standing in the hallway.

Naomi was grinning and holding a potted plant. Knox was scowling and lugging what looked like a hundred pounds of bedding. Waylay looked bored holding two pillows.

“So this is what happens when I move out of the roach motel? People start dropping in unannounced?” I said.

“Move it.” Knox muscled his way past me under an off-white duvet.

“Sorry to barge in like this, but we wanted to give you your housewarming gifts,” Naomi said. She was a tall brunette whose wardrobe trended toward girlie. Everything about her was soft: her wavy bob, the jersey knit of her long-sleeve dress over her generous curves, the way she appreciated the very nice ass of her fiancé, who was stalking toward my bedroom.

Nice butts ran in the Morgan family. According to Naomi’s mom, Amanda, Nash’s ass in his uniform pants was considered a local treasure.

Waylay sidled across the threshold. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail that showed off temporary blue highlights. “Here,” she said, shoving the pillows at me.

“Thanks, but I’m not moving in moving in,” I pointed out, tossing them on the couch.

“Knockemout has a way of turning into home,” Naomi said, handing me the plant.

She would know. She’d arrived a few months ago thinking she was helping her twin sister out of a jam only to be thrown into one herself. In the space of a few weeks, Naomi had become guardian to her niece, picked up two jobs, gotten abducted, and made Knox “I Don’t Do Relationships” Morgan fall in love with her.

Now, they lived in a big house just outside town surrounded by dogs and family and were planning a wedding. I made a mental note to someday introduce my mom to Naomi. She’d lose her mind over the real-life happily ever after.

Knox returned from the bedroom empty-handed. “Happy housewarming. Bed’s coming this afternoon.”

I blinked. “You got me a bed?”

“Deal with it,” he said, slinging an arm around Naomi’s shoulders and pulling her into his side.

Naomi elbowed him in the gut. “Be polite.”

“No,” he growled.

They made quite a picture. The tall, tattooed, bearded grump and the curvy, beaming brunette.

“What the Viking means to say is, we’re glad you’re staying in town and we thought a bed would make your stay more comfortable,” Naomi translated.

Waylay flopped down on top of the pillows on the couch. “Where’s the TV?” she asked.

“I don’t have one yet. But when I get one, I’m calling you to help me hook it up, Way.”

“Fifteen bucks,” she said, tucking her hands behind her head. The kid was an electronics genius and had no problem making a few bucks off her talents.

“Waylay,” Naomi said, exasperated.

“What? I’m giving her the friends and family discount.”

I tried to remember if I’d ever been close enough to anyone to earn a family and friends discount before.

Knox winked at Waylay, then gave Naomi another squeeze. “I gotta talk to Nash about something,” he said, hooking his thumb toward my door. “You need anything else, Leens, let me know.”

“Hey, I’m just happy I don’t have to fight an army of cockroaches for the shower here. Thanks for letting me move in temporarily.”

He tossed me a salute and a half grin as he headed for the door.

Naomi shuddered. “That motel is a health hazard.”

“At least it had a TV,” Waylay called from my empty bedroom.

“Waylay! What are you doing?” her aunt demanded.

“Snooping,” the twelve-year-old replied, appearing in the doorway, hands in the bedazzled pockets of her jeans. “It’s okay. She doesn’t have anything in here yet.”

A loud thudding came from the hallway. “Open up, asshole,” Knox growled.

Naomi rolled her eyes. “I apologize for my family. Apparently they were all raised by wolves.”

“Uncivilized has its own kind of charm,” I pointed out. Realizing I was still holding the plant, I took it over to the window and placed it on top of one of the empty crates. It had glossy green leaves.

“It’s lily of the valley. It won’t bloom until the spring, but it symbolizes happiness,” Naomi explained.

Of course it did. Naomi was expert-level thoughtful.

“The other reason we’re bursting in on you like this is we wanted to invite you over for dinner Sunday night,” she continued.

“We’re grilling chicken, but there’ll probably be about a hundred vegetables,” Waylay warned as she wandered over to the front window to peer out.

A dinner I didn’t have to order and the chance to enjoy domesticated Knox? I wasn’t about to pass up that invitation. “Sure. Let me know what I can bring.”

“Just bring yourself. Honestly, between me, my parents, and Stef, we’ll have a feast,” Naomi assured me.

“How about alcohol?” I offered.

“We’ll never turn that down,” she admitted.

“And a bottle of Yellow Lightning,” Waylay said.

Naomi shot Waylay a parental warning look.

“Please,” the girl amended.

“If you want an entire bottle of that tooth-rotting soda, you’re going to eat a salad with your pizza at lunch today and broccoli with dinner tonight,” Naomi insisted.

Waylay rolled her eyes at me as she sidled over to the table. “Aunt Naomi’s obsessed with vegetables.”

“Believe me, there are worse things to be obsessed with,” I told her.

She eyed my box of files, and I regretted not putting the lid back on it when her quick fingers tugged a folder free.

“Nice try, Snoop Doggy Dog,” I said, snatching it from her with a flourish.

“Waylay!” Naomi chastised. “Lina works in insurance. That’s probably confidential information.”

She had no idea.

I snagged the lid and put it back on the box.

The thudding next door continued. “Nash? You in there?”

It looked as though I wasn’t the only one hiding out from family.

“Come on, Way. Let’s go before Knox levels the building,” Naomi said, holding her arm out for her niece. Waylay slid into her aunt’s side, accepting the offered affection.

“Thank you for the plant…and the bed…and the place to stay,” I said.

“I’m so happy to have you here for a while longer,” Naomi said as we trooped to the door.

That made one of us.

Knox was standing in front of Nash’s door, digging through the keys on his ring.

“I don’t think he’s home,” I said quickly. Whatever was going on with Nash, I doubted he’d want his brother bursting into his apartment.

Knox’s gaze came up. “I heard he left work and came here.”

“Technically, we heard he left work and went to PT, but Neecey from Dino’s spotted him out front,” Naomi said.

Small-town gossip traveled faster than lightning. “He probably came and went. I made a hell of a racket lugging my stuff up here and didn’t see him.”

Knox pocketed his keys. “You see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”

“Me too,” Naomi added. “I tried calling him to invite him to Sunday dinner, but it went straight to voicemail.”

“Might as well tell him I’m lookin’ for him too,” Waylay piped up.

“Why are you lookin’ for him?” Knox demanded.

Waylay shrugged in her pink sweater. “Dunno. Just felt left out.”

Knox pulled her in for a headlock and ruffled her hair.

“Ugh! This is why I have to use industrial hairspray!” Waylay complained, but I saw the upward curve of her mouth when my grumpy tattooed friend dropped a kiss to the top of her head.

Between Naomi and Waylay, they’d done the impossible and turned Knox Morgan into a softie. And I had a front-row seat to the show.

“Bed’s comin’ at 3:00 today. Dinner’s at 6:00 Sunday,” Knox said gruffly.

“But you can come early. Especially if you’re bringing wine,” Naomi said with a wink.

“And Yellow Lightning,” Waylay added.

“I’ll see you then.”

The three of them headed for the stairs, Knox in the middle with his arms around his girls.

“Thanks for letting me crash here,” I called after them.

Knox raised a hand in acknowledgment.

I watched them leave and then closed my door. The glossy green of the plant drew my eye. A solitary homey item on an otherwise blank slate.

I’d never had a plant before. No plants. No pets. Nothing that couldn’t survive days or weeks without me.

I hoped I wouldn’t kill it before I wrapped up my business here. On a sigh, I picked up the folder Waylay had grabbed and opened it.

Duncan Hugo’s face stared back at me.

“You can’t hide forever,” I told the picture.

I heard Nash’s door open and close next door softly.