“Yeah, you’d care about where your next meal would come from.”

With what looked like an eye roll at Eli’s cynical assessment of the situation, Shadow abandoned him to rub against Brady’s leg. His brownnosing was rewarded when Brady dropped a piece of bacon to the floor. Eli poured a cup of coffee neat. Took a seat at the island.

Brady still hadn’t said a word, but then this was par for the course, and why the hell should the fact Eli almost died less than twelve hours ago change the habit of a lifetime? It had started two summers ago when Brady moved to Chicago from Paris, where he had apprenticed at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Each Wednesday and Saturday, Brady hit the Green City farmers’ market in Lincoln Park a few steps from Eli’s door. Afterward, he would amble over to Eli’s brownstone, let himself in, and start on breakfast. Now, even when there was no market in the winter and no reason why Brady should be up so early on the opposite side of town from where he lived, he still stopped by.

The two men went way back to their Marine Corps training nearly fifteen years ago, both of them having enlisted on 9/12. As part of an elite team, they had lived in each other’s space and knew when to give each other that same space when needed. For the majority of their military careers, Brady had been Eli’s CO, but it had been closer to joint rule. With Brady’s taciturnity, Eli was often the backboard-slash-translator for their squad. They had worked well together and remained good friends.

There was also the little matter of Eli saving Brady’s life in a desert dungeon.

Within minutes of Eli taking a seat, Brady set the plates down—omelets laced with tomatoes, caramelized onions, and herbs, and a side of apple-smoked bacon and chicken sausage—and took a seat himself. In comfortable silence, they ate and drank. Shadow turned on the eyes. Eli fed him a sausage.

Brady finally spoke. “Alex Dempsey is fuckin’ pissed.”

“You have personal knowledge of this?”

“Gage was able to convey her outrage pretty well. Thinks you’re going to scoop up all the glory. Per usual.”

Eli couldn’t help his smile. The perennially entertaining Alexandra Dempsey.

“I’ve no intention of holding back the kudos. She did me a solid.” More than that, she had calmed him through his panic at feeling entombed in that mask, a phobia that went back to his parents’ deaths. And as if it wasn’t bad enough he had shown weakness, he had to make it worse by admitting it to her in that hospital room.

“None of them like you,” Brady commented. “Though Alex knows barely half the reasons she don’t like you.”

“If you’re referring to my disposal of her date last week, that was merely me protecting her from yet another bad decision.”

Brady hitched an eyebrow, which served to smooth his skin near his scarred temple. They were the scars Eli could see, but he knew there were more. Under his clothes, etched on his psyche. But he seemed to be coming to terms with all that shit he’d endured, with Gage’s help.

“Gage says she’s looking for somethin’ real but she has a hard time on dates. Scares them dickless.”

Quelle surprise. “Of course she does. She’s a menace.”

“You want to do her so bad it’s not even funny.”

Eli let that go without a response, his brain snagged on something else Brady had said. “What do you mean she’s looking for something real?”

“She wants to find someone who gets her. Respects her.” At that, Brady offered a smartass squint. “Her OTL.”

“OTL?”

“One true love.”

Jesus. “Well, she won’t find it with the likes of Detective Martinez.” Eli sipped his coffee, choosing to refocus on his political problems instead of Alexandra Dempsey’s search for love in all the wrong places. “I could ride the wave of saving her, but—”

“That would be despicable, even for a black-hearted politico like you.”

“Right.” Contrary to the urging of his campaign manager, he had no intention of spinning this so Alexandra was cut out and made to look like the damsel in distress. But he needed to work it to his advantage all the same. “Madison thinks she might be of some benefit to the campaign. Get me closer to the unions, the people. Which means I need to get her on board.”

“You’re gonna have to grovel.”

“That’s not a good look for me.”

Brady’s mouth contorted into a grin. “Lots of guys I know would disagree. You on your knees is probably fantasy number one in every bar on Halsted. Good thing you’re not my type.”

“Yeah, I’m not twenty-five and blond and up for anything.” He rolled his neck, working out a kink. “So how’s that going?”

Brady slid off the stool and took the plates to the sink. For a moment, Eli thought he wouldn’t speak, but he knew that giving his friend time was the way to go.

“Okay, I s’pose.” He rinsed the plate and racked it in the dishwasher. “Better than okay. Really good, to be honest.”

Eli’s heart squeezed. He hadn’t dared to hope when he brought Gage into Brady’s kitchen at Smith & Jones six months ago. Brady’s darkness needed a spotlight and there was none bigger than Gage Simpson.

“Glad to hear it. Rather you than me with that family, though.”

“They’re good people. Look out for each other.” Brady rubbed his chin, a rare smile breaking wide. “You could just ask her out, y’know.”

“I could also jump in the lake or put my head in the oven or set my hair on fire.” Realizing that none of those things sounded like an adequate rebuttal to Brady’s proposition, he regrouped. “I’m not interested. She pushes my buttons, that’s all.” Bands of muscles tightened across his stomach as he remembered exactly which buttons were pushed during this morning’s steamy shower.

Grinning like he knew all Eli’s secrets, which wasn’t so far from the truth, Brady headed to the door. This happy, shiny version of his friend was most disconcerting.

“Anytime you want to double date with Gage and me, you just let us know. We’re always up for helping the course of OTL.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Eli called out, but Brady was already gone, the ghost of his unfamiliar laugh lingering in the air.

In the restroom of city hall’s fifth floor, Alex peered at her reflection in the dull-lustered mirror. Her stupid mane of curls refused to cooperate and she was trying to bobby-pin it into submission so her cap wouldn’t just sit at a jaunty angle on top. All her brothers managed to look like gods in the Chicago Fire Department dress uniform, but on Alex, it looked like she was back in St. Jude’s, hoping to avoid a beatdown from the nuns.

The tie choked her airway. The navy buttoned-up jacket pressed in like a band of steel around her breasts, which right now felt like half her body weight. Could they have grown since she wore it last at her academy graduation? She kept herself in shape, but Lord knew what was going on between all the stress of the last few months and the fact that she was mainlining her weight in squash blossoms on her weekly dates. Now that food had replaced sex in her life, she could barely get into her own pants, which were currently cinching her waist and sitting far too snugly over her butt.

In three minutes, she had to go out and smile for reporters and cameras and look boundlessly grateful to the mayor because he saved her life. He claimed he’d tell the truth, but she didn’t believe him. This morning’s front page of the Chicago Tribune said it all:

Mr. Mayor Saves Ms. Firefighter

Op-ed encapsulated in a five-word headline. Sam Cochrane, owner of the Trib, the mayor’s largest donor, and the Dempseys’ biggest hater, was having a field day over at his paper.

It had made national, too. Today did a piece, casting Eli in a heroic light. And yes, Alex knew he had saved her, but damn, it was so unfair. His junkyard dog, Madison Maitland, had already pulled Alex aside this morning to impress on her the urgency of “getting the story right.”