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“So would you like me to just … stop coming by, then?”
    “Huh?” He searches my face, frowning, and then says, “You think that’s a kiss-off? Hell, no.” He leans forward, his forearms on the bar, his face coming down to mine. “I’d like to think I’d do that with a little more class.”
    “Sorry,” I make a face. “Rough week. I’m braced for the worst.”
    “Well, this isn’t it.”
    His fingers hook mine, a discreet bit of physical contact. “When I said I’d have told you not to come by, it’s because I got a couple calls earlier. A guy phoned the bar and asked for me by a name I don’t use anymore.”
    From the old days, he meant. Kurt had grown up in the kind of neighbourhood where making a name for yourself almost certainly entailed jail time. He’d dropped out of high school and worked as an enforcer for a local “businessman.” After his second stint in prison, he cleaned up his act before a third strike stole his last chance.
    “Someone trying to pull you back in?” I ask.
    “Dunno. Can’t imagine why. I’ve been out too long, but maybe someone got my name, figured I might be tired of the straight life, looking to make some fast money. I said I don’t know anyone who goes by that name anymore. Hour later, I get the same call to my cell. I delivered the same message. That’s why I was going to suggest you stay away for a few days. Give me time to sort this. I don’t want you getting involved.”
    “I’m a cop. I can handle it.”
    “Right. You’re a cop … which is why we’ve been keeping this on the down-low.” He casts a meaningful glance over at a table of detectives in the corner. “You don’t need the bullshit of dating an ex-con. I get that.”
    “Umm, no,” I say. “If I’m discreet, it’s because I’m
always
discreet. I save my energy for
private
displays of affection.”
    His grin sparks then. “Which I totally appreciate.”
    “Glad to hear it. However, if you want, I could make an exception right now.”
    I reach and wrap my hand in his shirt. He grins but shakes his head and jerks his chin toward the back hall. I lead him into the single-occupancy ladies’ room and show him how much I’ve missed him. It doesn’t go beyond kissing, though. A quickie in the bathroom isn’t our style. Given that he might not want me coming by for a while, though, I consider making an exception. When I tell him this, he chuckles.
    “If you’re okay dealing with my shit, you can come by any time you like.”
    He leans into me. I’m sitting on the counter, my legs around him, and he presses closer, murmuring, “No pressure, but … what are my chances for tomorrow?”
    “About fifty-fifty. Diana—”
    He cuts me off with a kiss, a deep one that makes me temporarily forget what we’re talking about.
    “Your friend’s having trouble,” he says. “She comes first. But if you
can
get away tomorrow, I promise I’ll take your mind off that … and everything else that’s bugging you. I’d like your phone number, though. Again, not pushing, but I should have it in case there’s a problem.”
    I’m about to ask if he lost my number … and then realize I never gave it to him. We’ve been seeing each other for six months and I never got around to that. Shit. I pull out my phone. “Give me yours.”
    “Um, pretty sure I did already. Twice.”
    The first night I came by, with some guys from work, Kurt left his number on my napkin. I hadn’t kept it. I returned a week later, though, and he gave it to me again after I spent the night. At the time, I still hadn’t been prepared to save it, and then … well …
    When I’m slow to answer, he shakes his head and rattles it off. I text him my cell number, work number, and home address. His phone buzzes in his back pocket. When he reads the message, he grins like I’ve handed him the keys to my apartment, my car, and my safe deposit box.
    I see that grin, and I feel a prickle of guilt. I tell myself we keep things