The Break-In

Megan’s POV

My apartment door is open.

I stand in the hallway, staring at it with a frown, my new Louboutins planted firmly on the marble floor. The door is cracked just enough that I can see a sliver of darkness inside, and rage starts simmering in my veins immediately.

I locked this door. I know I locked this door.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I mutter, nudging the door wider with my foot. No way am I touching it with my hands. The red sole pushes against the wood, and the door swings open silently.

The takeout bag — forty-eight dollars of miso-glazed black cod and crispy tempura — goes on the floor. Then I dig into my purse, past my wallet and keys and lipstick, until my fingers close around the pepper spray I keep clipped to the lining.

The hallway is quiet. Mrs. William is playing her usual classical music three doors down. Everything is perfectly normal in this ridiculously expensive building with its supposed state-of-the-art security that clearly doesn’t mean shit.

The lights flip on as I step inside.

And freeze.

My apartment has been trashed.

Not just messy. Trashed. My white couch cushions are thrown across the floor, the decorative pillows I spent an hour arranging ripped open, stuffing everywhere. My coffee table books are scattered across the hardwood. The framed Vogue prints on my walls are crooked, and one is on the floor, the glass cracked.

But it’s my bedroom that makes my blood boil.

I can see from here that my closet doors are open, clothes pulled off hangers and dumped on the floor. My jewelry box, the antique one my grandmother left me, is overturned on my dresser, the contents spilled everywhere.

At least they  only got my costume jewelry. My real pieces are locked in a safe at the bank. But still, the principle of it makes me want to scream.

White-hot fury floods through me. 

“That fucking bitch,” I hiss, my grip tightening on the pepper spray.

Because I know exactly who did this. Tom’s too much of a coward to break into someone’s apartment. But Candy? Candy, who’s been blowing up my phone for three weeks, who left me a voicemail screaming about how I need to “leave them alone” and “stop harassing them,” who showed up outside my college last Tuesday demanding I “stop trying to cause problems,”. All because I had the audacity to want my money back after Tom emptied my bank account. The bitch is acting like I’m the villain for wanting to recover the five thousand dollars her loser boyfriend stole from me.

Yeah. This has her psychotic fingerprints all over it.

Taking out my phone, I try not to grind my teeth.

But first, I need this place cleaned up. I can’t think with this destruction everywhere.

I scroll to Ethan’s contact and hit dial, my eyes catching on my bathroom mirror. I step closer, and my blood pressure spikes even higher.

‘WHORE’ is scrawled across the glass in lipstick. In my fucking lipstick. That’s a fifty-dollar Chanel.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

“Hello?”

“Ethan, can you send over your cleaning service? My place got trashed.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Megan, this is Derrick.”

I blink, my eyes dropping from the mirror to the phone screen. Derrick Holt’s name stares back at me.

“Oh. Crap. Sorry, I meant to call Ethan—”

“What happened?” His voice is calm. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Someone broke in.” I turn away from the mirror, walking back into my living room and stepping over destroyed pillows. “It’s fine. I’ll call Ethan and—”

“Are you hurt?” His voice is sharp, tense.

“I’m fine. I just—”

“I’m on my way. What’s your address?”

“Derrick, you don’t need to—”

“Address, Megan.” His voice brooks no arguments.

I give it to him, because apparently I’m incapable of saying no when he uses that tone. “It’s apartment 14C.”

“Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

The line goes dead.

Great. Now what do I do?

Bringing in the takeout, I spend the next fifteen minutes taking pictures of everything. The destroyed living room. The ransacked bedroom. The lipstick message on the mirror. Evidence. Because when I destroy Candy’s life, and I will, I want documentation.

I’m in my closet, photographing my torn dresses, when I hear the knock on the door. I walk past the carnage and check through the security camera before opening the door. The man standing outside has broad shoulders covered by a beige trenchcoat, a slightly rumpled suit underneath telling me he probably came straight from the office. His dark brown hair is slightly standing on edge as if he’s been running his fingers through it, and thick brows are knitted in a frown over the most beautiful shade of green eyes.

“This isn’t something the deputy police commissioner needs to worry about.” I lean against the door frame, my arms crossed over my chest.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Are you really unhurt? Where were you when this happened?”

He grabs my chin, tilting my head gently from side to side, his eyes tracking over every inch. Looking for damage, for hurt, for anything wrong. Checking for injuries with that focused intensity that makes my traitorous heart skip a beat.

“My door was open when I came home,” I tell him. He’s still holding my chin, and I don’t want to ask him to let go.

“And you just walked in?” he demanded. “What if the intruder was still inside?”

“Then they would’ve caught a beating.” I shrug.

His eyes narrow. “You can’t just beat everyone up, Megan. If he was armed—”

“It’s very misogynistic of you to assume it was a man.”

“It’s usually men who break in.”

My lips twitch despite the situation. “Well, this time you’re wrong.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “Who did you piss off?”

I let out a sigh. “Why do you always assume the worst, Derrick? I can’t be that much of a troublemaker in your eyes.”

He releases my chin, and his thumb brushes across my cheekbone. “You’re a notorious troublemaker. Do you know how many times I’ve had to keep you out of jail?”

“I don’t count.” I grin up at him.

However, today my smile wobbles at the edges. He searches my gaze for a few seconds, his thumb still against my cheekbone, and then murmurs, “You’re upset.”

My smile drops. “What gave it away? The destroyed apartment or the fact that I haven’t stopped clenching my jaw for the past hour?”

He takes a step back and begins walking through the living room. “So you clearly know who this was. What happened?”

I gesture around the room. “This happened. That bitch broke in and destroyed my stuff. She left me a love note, too.”

“I need a name, Megan.”

“Candy.”

Derrick blinks. “That’s a stripper name.”

“No.” I sigh, guiding him to the bathroom. “That’s her actual name.”

“Give me more than just a first name, and I’ll have her picked up.”

“I’ll deal with it.” I glance at him as he looks at the writing on my mirror. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking at his temple as he stares at the smeared red letters. “But right now I need this cleaned up so I can think.”

“You need to file a police report.” His voice is firm. “This is breaking and entering, destruction of property—”

“I know what it is.” I step past him, heading for the closet. “And I said I’ll deal with it.”

“Your way will end with you in jail,” he says shortly. “And one Wilder in police custody is enough for one night.”

I whirl around to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean? Who’s in jail?”

Derrick raises a brow. “I thought you and Caleb were close.”

My blood runs cold, and I step towards him. “Caleb’s in jail?”

“It’s being dealt with,” he says calmly, walking around the room, assessing the damage.

“Why? What did he do?” I trail after him worried.

“His friend was assaulted, so he, much like you, refused to get the authorities involved and decided to take matters in his own hand.” Derrick gives me a pointed look.

I press my lips together. “Is he okay? Which station? I’ll go and—”

“Ethan and Jake are handling it.” Derrick has reached the bathroom and is looking at the writing on the mirror. “You have an interesting circle of friends.”

“It wasn’t a friend of mine who did this. It’s my ex’s current girlfriend,” I snap, irritably.

“Why?”

His question has me glowering at him. “Why? Because that spineless weasel stole money from me, and I want it back. Tom and his little psycho think they can harass me into letting them keep it. She thinks she can outcrazy me.”

Derrick studies me for a long minute and then says, “I doubt anybody can outcrazy you, Megan. But this one is definitely trying. How did she get into your place? Did Tom have a key?”

“He used to, but I took it back. He could have made a copy, though.”

“And you never changed your locks?”

Why does it feel like I’m in trouble?

“I never got around to it,” I mutter. “I’ve been busy with classes and projects.”

Derrick crouches down to pick up a framed photograph of me and Nick and sets it back on the side table. “I’ll get some officers here to go over the scene. In the meantime, pack what you need and I’ll drop you at your parents’—”

“No!” The refusal is sharp. “I’ll get a hotel room.”

“Megan.” Disapproval lines Derrick’s tone. “I’m not letting you stay at a hotel, alone.”

“I’m not a child, Derrick. I’m not running to my parents every time something happens.” My jaw tenses. “They already think I’m a mess. I don’t need to prove them right.”

He doesn’t respond immediately and then says, “Fine. But you’re not staying here tonight. You’re staying at my place.” His voice is firm.

“Derrick—”

“I have a guest room. You’ll be safe.” He holds up a hand when I open my mouth to argue.

“You can’t tell my family,” I say abruptly.

“Your brothers care about—”

I straighten, my eyes flashing. “I can handle my own messes, Derrick. I don’t need them lecturing me.”

His jaw works, a war playing out behind those green eyes, before he finally exhales through his nose. “Fine. I won’t tell your family. Now go pack a bag.”

Heading to my room, I keep my spine straight and my breathing even. The tightness in my throat is just anger. That’s all. Nothing else. I focus on that instead—on the cold satisfaction of knowing Candy’s going to regret stepping into my home.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in Derrick’s apartment, my overnight bag at my feet. I’m still furious—that low simmer that hasn’t quite banked yet—but something about his space dampens it just enough that I can breathe. Minimalist, masculine, everything in its place. The opposite of the chaos I just left behind.

The tight coil in my chest loosens, just slightly. Enough that I can think past the urge to track Candy down and return the favor.

“Color palette could use some work,” I murmur, looking around. “Very ‘emotionally constipated bachelor.’”

He doesn’t react to the jab, just pulls out his phone as it buzzes. He glances at the screen, and his shoulders relax fractionally.

“Ethan?” I ask.

He nods, typing a quick response. “Caleb’s fine. They got him released. He’s heading home now.”

The knot of worry I didn’t realize I was carrying begins to unravel. “Good. That’s… good.”

Derrick pockets his phone and gestures down the hallway. “Guest room’s this way.”

The guest room is small but well-appointed, the bed never slept in. He sets my bag down. “Bathroom’s across the hall.” He pauses. “Are you hungry? I was going to make dinner.”

“Not really.” His words remind me that I left my takeout in my apartment. There goes forty dollars of good food. “But I’ll eat anyway. I want to take a shower first.”

Derrick pauses and then says, “Fresh towels are in the bathroom cabinet. I’ll get started on dinner.”

“We could order,” I suggest guiltily. “I’ll pay since I’m inconveniencing you.”

He frowns. “Don’t insult me by offering to pay for food. You’re my guest. Besides, I already prepped before leaving for work.”

“You prepped dinner before leaving for work?” I sound the words out in my mouth, imagining him standing at the kitchen counter, wearing an apron over his suit, meticulously slicing vegetables at five in the morning. The image is far more sexy than it should be.

“I always meal prep.” Derrick moves towards the kitchen. “I prefer cooking.”

I look at his back as he hangs up his trenchcoat and shrugs out of his jacket. His fingers loosen his tie, and he rolls up his sleeves. My breath catches at the finely corded muscles in his forearms.

I might have to take a cold shower.

Derrick’s apartment is an open floor plan with the kitchen and the living room being a combined area, separated only by a half wall. The bedrooms and the bathroom are down the small hallway. By the time I’m done with my shower, the cold water has shocked some clarity back into my system. The rage is still there—it’s settled into something colder, sharper. More useful. That woman was in my space. Does she really think I’m going to let her get away with it?

But standing here, in Derrick’s space, borrowing his towels and his safety—maybe going full scorched earth isn’t the play. Maybe Derrick’s right. An official police report might be the way to go.

At least as a starting point.

When I finally turn off the water and reach for my towel, I realize my mistake.

My clean clothes are in the bedroom. I’m in the bathroom wearing nothing but water and poor life choices. I glance at the clothes I had taken off. They’re on the bathroom floor. There’s no way I’m putting them on now.

“Well, shit.” I wrap the towel around myself, thick and soft, covering chest to mid-thigh. The bathroom floor is still wet from my shower, puddles of water near the tub. I step carefully around them toward the door and crack it open. “Derrick?”

“Yeah?” His voice drifts from the kitchen.

“I forgot my clothes. Could you grab my bag?”

There’s a pause. “Sure. Give me a second.”

I hear his footsteps, then the sound of him moving around in the guest room. A moment later, he appears in the hallway, my bag in hand, very deliberately looking at the ceiling.

“Here,” he says, holding it out.

I reach for it through the crack in the door, but the bag is bulky and won’t fit through. “It’s not going to—can you just set it inside? Near the door?”

He nods, still determinedly studying the ceiling, and steps into the bathroom.

That’s when his foot hits the wet tile.

I see it happen in slow motion—his shoe loses traction, his eyes widen, his arms windmill for balance. Instinct takes over and I lunge forward to steady him, my hands reaching for his shoulders.

Bad idea.

My bare feet hit the same wet patch, and suddenly we’re both going down.

I land heavily on top of him, my knees hitting the floor on either side of his hips. One hand shoots out to brace against his shoulder while the other maintains its death grip on the towel at my chest. Thank god it stays in place.

For a moment, we both freeze.

Then I register exactly where I am. Straddling him. On the wet bathroom floor. In nothing but a towel.

And more importantly, I can feel everything. Every solid plane of his body, every tense muscle, and especially the very prominent evidence that he is not unaffected by this situation pressing against me through his pants.

“Oh.” The word comes out breathy, surprised. “Hi.”

“Don’t move,” he grits out, his hands coming up to grip my hips.

I try to stand, shifting my grip so both hands press against his shoulders for leverage, but my knee slides on the wet tile and I drop back down, grinding against him in the process. His groan is all male frustration, and his fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise.

“Stop,” he says through gritted teeth. “Stop moving.”

“I’m trying,” I point out, slightly breathless. “But the floor is wet, and I’m—oh.”

I shift again, trying to get purchase, and this time I feel it. The unmistakable hardness of his erection pressed against the most sensitive part of me, separated only by my towel and his pants. Heat floods through me.

“Megan.” My name sounds strangled. “Stop. Moving.”

“You know,” I say, going completely still and meeting his eyes, “for a man who’s trying to pretend this isn’t affecting him, you’re doing a terrible job.”

His eyes snap open. I hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. The look he gives me is so heated I feel it everywhere. “You’re sitting on me in a towel. I’m human.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You’re usually so controlled.” I tilt my head, studying his face. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched, a flush creeping up his neck. It’s the most undone I’ve ever seen him. “This is nice. Seeing you flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“Liar.” I brace my hands on his shoulders again, carefully this time. “Okay. I’m going to try to stand up without killing both of us. Ready?”

“Go slow.”

I plant my feet on the dry part of the floor and push up carefully, using his shoulders for balance. The movement creates a delicious friction that makes both of us tense, but I manage to rise without slipping this time. His hands stay on my hips until I’m fully upright, and even then, they linger.

He seems to realize what he’s doing and drops his hands like I’ve burned him.

He gets to his feet with impressive speed, his face flushed, and makes it a point not to look at me. Or at the very obvious bulge in his pants.

“I’ll…” I gesture vaguely at the bathroom, biting back a smile.

“Yeah. Right. Take your time.”

He practically flees down the hallway, and I retreat into the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against it.

The deputy police commissioner got flustered by me in a towel. Ethan’s oldest friend, who never loses control, and I made him hard on his bathroom floor.

I can still feel the imprint of his hands on my hips, can still feel the hard length of him against me.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror — wet hair, flushed cheeks, eyes bright with something that feels dangerously like triumph — and grin.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

Once I’m fully dressed in black leggings and cashmere, I follow the scent of garlic to the kitchen. Derrick’s at the stove in gray sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt that looks way too delicious on him.

I hop up on the counter beside him. “Smells amazing.”

“It’s pasta.” He doesn’t look at me. His hands work the pan, tossing golden strands of spaghetti with garlic-infused olive oil. The pan sizzles softly, a hint of red pepper flakes catching the light.

Is he avoiding my gaze or just focused on cooking?

“Better than my takeout skills.” I watch him work. “Do you think Ethan’s cleanup crew could come tomorrow?”

“Probably. But did you consider if his cleanup crew comes, then he’s going to find out.”

His words have me pausing. “Damn it. I guess I’ll do it myself then.” My eyes focus on him. “You could help me.”

“I’m busy, Megan.”

“Come on, Derrick. It’s a lot of work. I don’t want to do it myself,” I cajole him. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

“I saw the state of your place. It’ll take two days to put everything back the way it was, considering you can salvage most of it. I’ll recommend a cleaning crew once my officers have done their investigation.”

I turn my head away. “Fine. Be that way.”

I can see him glancing my way from my peripheral vision. When I don’t speak, he sighs. “You’ll have to wait for this weekend. I’ll take Saturday off.”

A smile blooms on my face, and I immediately turn to look at him. “You’re such a sweetheart for offering.”

He tucks his tongue in his cheek, slightly amused. “You’re a brat, Megan.”

“Your point?” I reach out and pluck out a slice of tomato from the salad he must have made while I was showering. Munching on it, I ask, “So. Are you seeing anyone?”

His stirring changes rhythm, but he doesn’t look my way. “No.”

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“So you’re single.” I study him. “That’s surprising. You’re hot, successful, and can cook, apparently. Why single?”

“Megan.”

“Come on.” I scoot closer on the counter. “There is someone, isn’t there?”

His jaw tightens. “There’s no one.”

“Then look at me when you say it.”

He doesn’t. Keeps stirring the sauce, his shoulders tense.

“You’re being evasive,” I needle him.

“If I’d known you were planning to do a deep dive into my love life, I would’ve dropped you at your parents.”

“But you didn’t.” I wonder if he’s ever going to really look at me. Not as his oldest friend’s younger sister, but me.

“What’s she like?” I switch gears. “Is she as pretty as me?”

“Megan.” He sets down the wooden spoon and turns to face me, stepping between my knees, his hands bracing on the counter on either side of me. “Stop. Pushing.”

His eyes are dark, intense, and I’m abruptly aware of how close he is. Close enough that if I leaned forward just a few inches…

My pulse kicks up, but I don’t back down. Instead, I tilt my head, meeting his gaze head-on. “Or what?” I wind my arms around his neck slowly, deliberately, watching his eyes track the movement. “Or what?” I ask again, softer this time.

His gaze drops to my mouth, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. The air between us is electric, charged with everything we’re not saying. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact. My thighs bracketing his hips, my fingers playing with the soft hair at his nape, his hands gripping the counter so hard his knuckles have gone white.

I think he’s going to kiss me. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to give in to whatever this is between us and—

“It’s better,” he says, his voice rough and low, “if we don’t find out.”

Then he pulls back, putting distance between us, and I let my arms fall away. He returns to the stove, picking up the wooden spoon with hands that aren’t quite steady.

I could let it go. I probably should let it go.

But I’ve never been good at doing what I should.

“You know,” I say conversationally, examining my nails, “I’m not eighteen anymore.”

He goes completely still, his back rigid. “I’m aware.”

“Good.”

He gives me a long look,  and I bite back a grin. Deciding to take mercy on him, I slip off the counter and take a seat at the table instead. He plates the food and brings it over, setting it in front of me.

“Eat, and then I want to know what’s been going on with your ex.” Derrick takes a seat across from me.

“He was a wannabe musician and had a bike. It was fun till he decided to cheat on me.”

“Didn’t your last two boyfriends cheat on you, too?”

I go still. “You’re more well-informed than I thought. Are you trying to say it’s my fault.”

He doesn’t flinch at my sharp tone, his gaze steady. “No. I’m saying you need to stop dating these types of men.”

I take a bite of the pasta and close my eyes briefly, letting the flavors hit me. “Well, the dating pool isn’t exactly stellar.”

“It would be if you chose carefully.” Derrick’s annoyed tone makes me open my eyes and look at him.

“Really?” I wave my fork in his direction amused. “And what kind of man do you think I should be going for?”

“Someone who’s stable and reliable and cares for you.”

“Stable, huh?” I muse. “Considering I’m in my last year of college, I don’t think I’m very financially stable, so how can I find someone stable? Besides, people like that are boring.” I set down my fork, batting my eyes at him. “Not you, though. You’re not boring. What do you say? Want to go out with me?”

Derrick takes a bite of his pasta, looking unfazed. “I’m too old for you.”

I lean back in my chair. “I don’t hear a ‘no.’”

He gives me a stern look. “Eat your dinner, Megan.”

“Say ‘no’ then.”

His eyes narrow. Fortunately he’s saved from answering by his phone ringing. Getting up, he steps out onto the small balcony, sliding the door shut behind him.  

I pick up my fork and take another bite of the pasta. It’s perfect. Rich, flavorful, cooked exactly right. Of course it is.

I watch him through the glass door. He’s on the phone, one hand running through his dark hair, his expression focused. Even in gray sweatpants and a t-shirt, he looks good. Too good.

I’ve always thought he was cute.

Now I think he’s biteable.