A/N: SORRY! I swear, I blinked and six months passed by. POOF! Thank you all for your patience and understanding while I put my house in order, both figuratively and literally. What an ordeal! But I am unpacked and organized (pretty much) and the kids are back to school and I'm back to writing. I plan on returning to my weekly Sunday updates. (I'll do my best!).

For those readers I've gained during my time away, welcome! I have thanked many already, but if you're the silent type, I'll thank you here!! For my faithfuls, my regulars, and all those who've been with me a long time, I'm so thrilled to have you back reading. You are my motivation. ♥️💪🔨💫🥰💃🏻 ✍️

Since it has been soooo long, here is a quick recap: 

Robbie is working with Paul to help defend Tony Shaw, a colonel in the Marine Corp accused of brutally murdering his wife, Elizabeth. They have reason to suspect she was having an affair with Charles Pearson, aka Charlie White, but have little to go on so far, and he is nowhere to be found. Robbie has invited Paul to move in, for ease of convenience as he prepares for Shaw's court date. At least that's the excuse she uses. She tells the tragic story of Max, the boy next door, and his sister, Megan, both of whom Paul believes he has met. Post mortem. Virginia and Mark are dealing with the threat of Pino Trovato trying to move in on Chilvati territory. They are doing their best to protect their loved ones, but will it prove to be enough . . .

As Robbie moved about the kitchen, Paul called over, "I can't believe you ate my cinnamon roll."

"They were so good." She glanced at him and grinned. "Don't be such a baby. I'm making you lunch, aren't I?"

That she was. And for some reason, it was heartening to watch.

He'd come back shortly after noon to find her fully dressed and rearranging the bedroom closet to make room for him. The flutter of panic over the significance she seemed to be putting on an agreement of convenience was quickly squelched when she turned and said, "If I find any dirty clothes on the floor, you'll be out of here so fast, it'll make your head spin."

He'd smiled at that, pulling a black thong from the pocket of his jeans, a little surprise he'd come across when fishing for his car keys. Twirling it around his index finger, he'd countered with, "And what if I find your clothes?"

"I was wondering where those went!" She had made a grab for them, but he was too quick, jerking his hand well out of her reach.

"They're mine now," he'd warned, admiring the cute flush that hit her cheeks.

He'd stuffed the lacy undies back into their hiding place, causing her eyes to drift down to his hips.

Where everything had gone rock-hard.

Zero to sixty in 3.5.

He might have been able to gear it down if his brain hadn't decided to ride shotgun, firing up memories of her lying naked beneath him and causing a sensory overload that shifted his internal GPS into one-track mode. He'd taken a step toward her.

But his stomach hadn't come along for the ride. It had made other plans, filling the room with a loud grumble that rolled on and on, an echo down an empty cavern. She'd gone straight to the kitchen upon hearing it, leaving him alone with his erection to unpack. 

At one with the closet rod, so to speak.

When he'd come out, she'd confessed about the pastries. Not that he really cared. The scent of her cooking was mouth-watering, far more tempting than any sticky bun ever could be. He did enjoy teasing her about it, though.

A plate came down on the coffee table in front of him, filled to capacity with an omelet and a side of toast. "I hope you like green peppers and mushrooms." She sat on the floor across from him and focused on the food, like a puppy eager for table scraps.

He had to laugh. "Do you want some?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm stuffed."

"I wonder why," he scoffed. As she continued to stare, he realized it was an evaluation she was looking for. He grabbed up the knife and fork and took a bite. Light and fluffy, the cheese, egg, and vegetable combo was everything its savory aroma promised it would be . . . "Delicious."

She smiled, and that warm stirring he'd felt earlier intensified. He took another bite, and another, polishing off everything on the plate in a matter of minutes.

With a satisfied exhale, he sank back into the cushions. "Thank you. It's not often people cook for me, besides family of course, but that usually comes with a price—either I'm being drilled by my parents or attacked by my sister's kids."

"Do you want children?"

The question came out of nowhere, shocking him into stillness. Months ago—shit, even days ago—he might have cracked up before blurting out a "hell, no," but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to say anything. What the fuck was happening to him? Maybe it was the aftereffects of hearing Max's and Megan's story, or maybe he was missing his niece and nephew more than he thought he would.

Yeah, or maybe he didn't want to come off as callous to the woman in front of him. "Um . . ."

Robbie lifted a palm in the air. "Sorry, I guess I shouldn't ask those kinds of questions."

There it was again. Paul had gotten used to her bluntness. In fact, he had grown fond of it. No head games, no begging for attention, no annoying pretenses, Robbie's candor was refreshing, but he'd begun to recognize the insecurity that occasionally followed, like a shadow, elusive and fleeting. He needed to pay more attention. "You can ask me anything. If it's none of your business, I'll tell you."

Her smile returned.

"As far as kids go," he tacked on, "I don't think about it much. Not yet anyway. How about you?"

She shrugged. "I shouldn't have kids."

His face must have shown his confusion, prompting her to look away. Her voice was quiet when she added, "Since you'll be living here for a bit, I should probably tell you . . ."

Curious, Paul leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word.

Breath rushed past her lips as she slammed her eyes shut. "I have Asperger's."

Oh, man. What to say to that? Sorry seemed inappropriate.

She lifted her gaze, obviously trying to read into his silence. "Do you know what that is?"

"Kind of."

She spent a long moment studying the crumbs on his plate. "It's hard to explain. People are my biggest challenge, understanding their emotions and knowing how to react, how to fit into the social norm. It doesn't come naturally to me. Crowds make me uncomfortable. And noise, disorder, bright lights . . . you get the idea. Relationships, too, can be tricky. I tend to fixate on things, topics"—dark eyes flashed his way—"people."

"Me?" That was a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. Truth be told, he hadn't thought she liked him all that much—until today. "You fixate on me?"

One shoulder shifted up and down. "Maybe. Probably." There was a long sigh before she breathed, "Most likely."

Things were all starting to make sense. "This is why you're so good with computers, isn't it."

In an instant, her expression brightened. "My mother surprised me one day by bringing home an original iMac. It was shortly after my dad died, and I suppose she thought it would help take my mind off my grief. I remember thinking how pretty it was. Mine was blue, Bondi blue. Remember all those colors it came in?"

Paul nodded. "I do, but we never had one. It took my parents years to believe the Internet was around for good."

"Ah, yes. It was also the first product to have the i prefix—which stands for Internet by the way."

"Oh. I never thought about that."

"The things looked like they were about to give birth, but they were revolutionary at the time, setting the foundation for Apple's revival."

He nodded. Again.

"I'm rambling. Sorry. See?" She spread her arms wide. "Fixated."

"No, it's fascinating," Paul said. "Really," he tacked on when she cocked a brow.

"Anyway, imagine my mother's shock when she found it in pieces the next day."

Okay . . . not what he expected. But picturing a young Robbie going all executioner with a screwdriver made him chuckle.

She joined in as she added, "I must have taken that thing apart and put it back together at least a hundred times, fascinated by how all the inner components worked and fit together." Suddenly, all humor bled from her face. "It became this weird obsession."

Oh, man, Paul thought to himself. He wanted to touch her, distract her, bring back that smile, but at the same time he wanted to hear more, sensing that she rarely got this personal. "I'm not seeing a downside here, baby."

"You will."

Fuck it. Reaching across the table, he placed his hand over hers.

Solemn eyes held his for a moment before she made the big withdrawal—easing away from him, both her hands and her gaze ended up in her lap. "It was worse when I was in school." She kept her lids lowered. "I talked too little, too much, too close, too loud."

As she stopped and took a shaky breath, Paul knew she had hit a nerve because the pain had etched rigid lines into her face.

Her voice got thin. "Kids can be cruel, you know? But I wasn't the only one they picked on." She peeked up at him through her lashes. "I bet you never had that problem."

No. He hadn't. Being an early bloomer and gifted with some decent athletic ability, it was unlikely any bully would take him on. They tended to avoid the big, aggressively competitive types. But that didn't make him an innocent. How many times had he walked by someone like Robbie? Witnessed the goading, the verbal abuse, and told himself it was none of his business? Now he wished he could go back in time, throw some bodies up against lockers, give those assholes a taste of their own medicine. "I'm so sorry."

She finally met his stare. "And there lies the difference between you and me. You say that and mean it. I would only say it because it's expected of me."

He didn't believe that. He'd seen her with their client, seen the concern, the compassion, the warmth. Yes, she may have been a little stiff, but there was no way she was acting. "You're not giving yourself enough credit, Robbie."

Her head tilted as she flashed her eyebrows. "I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I've had therapy. Years of it. Behavioral, physical, specialized speech, I've done it all. Having a great family also helped. My dad was very supportive."

"What about your mom?"

"She has Asperger's too."

Oh, crap. "It's hereditary?"

Robbie shrugged. "There's no specific genetic link. It was just my father's shitty luck."

He frowned, not liking the way she was referring to herself. "Don't say that."

There was a hint of regret in her eyes. "You're right. He would never look at it that way. He was proud of us, tried to include us in everything he did, pulling us along wherever he went, like two balloons tethered to his wrist. Once he was gone, we were set adrift, banging into each other here and there, both of us lost without my father's grounding force."

Paul wanted to wrap her in his arms but sensed this was not the time.

"Luckily, my mom has a big family. They all pitched in and helped, and I'll be eternally grateful for that, but none of them could replace my dad."

"Of course not. Where is your mom now?"

"She's here, lives in D.C., still works full time, never remarried, but she's happy enough. We see each other about once a month or so, and we do okay." She nodded, over and over, like she was trying to convince herself. "Sometimes it's hard to watch her struggle to connect with me, and I'm sure she feels the same way. Staring at a reflection of your own deficiencies is not something you would choose to do every day."

"Jesus . . . Robbie." What else could he say? This had been her battle, her cross to bear, her scars to conceal, and any opinions coming out of his mouth were . . . well, for one, uneducated.

Besides, the discussion was over.

She reached for his plate and made a move to get up, but he raised a hand to stop her. "I'll clean." He nodded toward the notes he'd made as he picked up his plate. "Take a look at my opening statement so far. It's rough, but let me know what you think. I wish it packed more of a punch."

Once in the kitchen, he regretted his offer. She must have used every frying pan and utensil she owned. How could one egg dish create such chaos? "I thought you didn't like disorder?" he called out.

He had to smile at the laughter coming from the other room. Man, that sounded good.

It was a few minutes later, as Paul leaned over the sink, up to his elbows in suds, when she came up beside him. "What is this?"

He looked at what she held in her hand—a photograph of a typed list of names. "I gave the colonel a copy of the discovery and asked him to look it over and point out anything abnormal. That was the only picture on Elizabeth's cell."

"Considering the camera she had, that's not so unusual."

"I agree." Paul rinsed the last dish and reached around Robbie for the towel. As his chest pressed into her back, she jerked away from him. Realizing what he was going for, she grabbed the cloth and handed it over with a mumbled "sorry."

Confused, considering what they'd done to each other hours earlier, he wondered if moving in with her so quickly had been a smart move. Could it cause her undue stress? "You okay?"

"Yeah." She waved the photo once in his direction. "You just surprised me, that's all."

Paul was sure there was more to it than that, but he wasn't about to pressure her. Drying his hands, he refocused on the list. "All those women are wives of officers on base."

"So . . . ?" She arched her brows.

"Shaw thought it was weird. She didn't socialize with any of them." Paul tossed the towel to the counter. "But who knows? Maybe she was planning a party, trying to get more involved in her husband's life."

"Hmmmm." Robbie stared down at the photo.

Something was going on inside that analytical brain of hers, and he loved the way her lips formed a pouty heart when she was deep in thought. "You got a theory there, Einstein?"

She ignored the comment, tapping a finger against those perfectly puffy lips. Then she leaned closer, the photo leading the way as she used that same finger to point at the one name with a dark, horizontal line running through its center—Elizabeth Shaw. With her arm resting along his, the link felt warm and smooth and natural as hell, and Paul made a mental note that all touching should be on her terms. Her voice was quiet when she asked, "Isn't it strange to put your own name on a list only to cross it out?"

Paul hadn't a clue. What did he know about throwing parties? "Maybe it's a headcount thing?"

"There's something . . . else . . ." Her brows pulled together as she went back to brainstorming . . . and pouting. Paul enjoyed the view.

"Hang on." She shoved the photo into his chest, and he had no choice but to secure its position as she ran off in the direction of the living room. Once she'd picked up her own cell phone, she hung her head and swiped at the screen for a bit.

"Holy shit," she suddenly shouted.

"What?"

"It's his." She walked toward him, holding the cell phone up in front of her for him to see. "That bit of wood you see just below the paper?"

It wasn't until she'd almost reached him when he realized a picture of Charles Pearson's apartment was front and center.

She pointed to her screen. "It's his desk."

Paul compared the two photos and pushed a hand through his hair. It was a long shot but . . . damn, it definitely was a close match. If she's right—

"That list," Robbie burst out, finishing his thought for him, "is what Elizabeth was after when she sneaked into his apartment."

END OF CHAPTER TWENTY

Ohhhh! And to think Paul didn't want any help when he first took on this case🤣

What do you think of Robbie's confession? Should she have kept it all to herself? Do you think this will help or hinder their relationship?🤷🏻‍♀️

Thanks again for coming back! Please don't forget that little star ✨I've missed you guys♥️