Christ. Get a grip.

Five minutes with Mr. Dark and Dangerous, and I was fil ed with an edgy, restless energy. I could stil feel the pul of him, the inexplicable urge to go back inside where he was. I could make the argument that I hadn’t finished what I’d come to the Crossfire to do, but I knew I’d kick myself for it later. How many times was I going to make an ass of myself in one day?

“Enough,” I scolded myself under my breath.

“Moving on.”

Horns blared as one cab darted in front of another with only inches to spare and then slammed on the brakes as daring pedestrians stepped into the intersection seconds before the light changed.

Shouting ensued, a barrage of expletives and hand gestures that didn’t carry real anger behind them. In seconds al the parties would forget the exchange,

which was just one beat in the natural tempo of the city.

As I melded into the flow of foot traffic and set off toward the gym, a smile teased my mouth. Ah, New York, I thought, feeling settled again. You rock.

I’d planned on warming up on a treadmil , then capping off the hour with a few of the machines, but when I saw that a beginners’ kickboxing class was about to start, I fol owed the mass of waiting students into that instead.

By the time it was over, I felt more like myself. My muscles quivered with the perfect amount of fatigue and I knew I’d sleep hard when I crashed later.

“You did real y wel .”

I wiped the sweat off my face with a towel and looked at the young man who spoke to me. Lanky and sleekly muscular, he had keen brown eyes and flawless café au lait skin. His lashes were enviably thick and long, while his head was shaved bald.

“Thank you.” My mouth twisted rueful y. “Pretty obvious it was my first time, huh?”

He grinned and held out his hand. “Parker Smith.”

“Eva Tramel .”

“You have a natural grace, Eva. With a little training you could be a literal knockout. In a city like New York, knowing self-defense is imperative.” He gestured over to a corkboard hung on the wal . It was covered in thumbtacked business cards and fliers. Tearing off a flag from the bottom of a fluorescent sheet of paper, he

held it out to me. “Ever heard of Krav Maga?”

“In a Jennifer Lopez movie.”

“I teach it, and I’d love to teach you. That’s my website and the number to the studio.”

I admired his approach. It was direct, like his gaze, and his smile was genuine. I’d wondered if he was angling toward a pickup, but he was cool enough about it that I couldn’t be sure.

Parker crossed his arms, which showed off cut biceps. He wore a black sleeveless shirt and long shorts. His Converse sneakers looked comfortably beat up and tribal tattoos peeked up from his col ar.

“My website has the hours. You should come by and watch, see if it’s for you.”

“I’l definitely think about it.”

“Do that.” He extended his hand again, and his grip was solid and confident. “I hope to see you.” The apartment smel ed fabulous when I got back home and Adele was crooning soulful y through the surround sound speakers about chasing pavements. I looked across the open floor plan into the kitchen and saw Cary swaying to the music while stirring something on the range. There was an open bottle of wine on the counter and two goblets, one of which was half-fil ed with red wine.

“Hey,” I cal ed out as I got closer. “Whatcha cooking? And do I have time for a shower first?” He poured wine into the other goblet and slid it across the breakfast bar to me, his movements practiced and elegant. No one would know from looking at him that he’d spent his childhood bouncing between his drug-addicted mother and foster homes, fol owed by adolescence in juvenile detention facilities and state-run rehabs. “Pasta with meat sauce. And hold the shower, dinner’s ready. Have fun?”