Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

“Good looking, huh?” Of course, he focuses on the name I called him. “And yet you’re so impatient for me to leave.”

“Oh, em . . .” When his smile sags a touch, I realize I’ve been outright rude. But I’m too embarrassed to explain why. That I thought he was just having a laugh at my expense on his way into the pub . . . and couldn’t possibly be interested in me. I mean, I’m only after getting off the plane at JFK, no shower or hairstyle to speak of. My jeans and tank top are rumpled from traveling and will probably have to be burned. What could possibly have drawn this man in my direction? “I apologize. I just assumed you had somewhere else to be and I was . . . giving you leave. To go there.”

He tilts his head, interested. “Where do you think I’m headed?”

“Hmm.” I lean back and size him up. When I reach his eyes, one thing is obvious. He already thinks he knows my answer. “Piano fingers.”

Shock transforms his expression and the digits in question twitch at his side. “What about them?”

“Maybe you’re a piano teacher? On the way to a lesson?” Why is he so quiet all of a sudden? “Am I that far off?”

“No, but . . .” He shifts. “You look at me and think I could be a piano teacher?”

“What do you want me to see?” His lack of response jumbles my nerves. “Wherever you’re headed, I was just trying to be polite and give you an easy send off. I didn’t mean to sound eager or anything.”

He gives a quick shake of his head. “You don’t need a reason for wanting me gone.” He seems intent on impressing this important point upon me. “It’s your decision and I should have listened the first time.”

I’m suspicious by nature. “Are you being this agreeable now because I’m murder sightseeing and you’re trying to get away from me?”

“No, actually I think murder sightseeing is pretty fucking cool.”

“Is that why you’re still here?”

“Yeah. And the fact that you’re beautiful.” He arches an eyebrow when all I can do is sputter. “If you’ve changed your mind about ditching me, I’ll bring you inside to get a decent picture. Do you know which chair Whitey was sitting in when—”

“Third from the end.”

“Had a feeling you would know.” With a half-smile, he offers me his arm, which is wrapped in the soft cotton of a black hoodie. “Come on. I’ll kick whoever is in it out.”

“I don’t go into bars. That’s why I’m out here probably looking like a bloody lunatic.” The reasoning behind my no bar rule is personal—too personal to tell a stranger—so my gaze automatically evades him. Otherwise he might see the hurt and I don’t share that with anyone. It’s mine. But I feel him watching closely as I tuck my camera back into its case and replace it in the pocket of my backpack. “Thank you for the offer . . .”

“Jack.” His throat sounds crowded when he answers me, along with his eyes. “And you’re . . .”

“Katie.” I sling my backpack on over my shoulders, trying to remember if I thanked him for calling me beautiful. Or if I should even call attention to the fact he did, because he might repeat the word and I’m not sure I can handle hearing it twice in one day. Not without giggling and making a complete arse out of myself.

The last four years of my life have been spent training for the Olympics non-stop. Grueling hours of practice that meant zero time for the opposite sex. Now, at the first sign of freedom, I’m thrown right into the arena with James Dean’s great-grandson. When I decided to sandwich in a torrid love affair during my business trip to New York, I had someone more approachable in mind. Like a nerdy desk clerk. Or a portly crossing guard. “Listen, I’m not judging or anything. About the bar. Really. You can go on in—”

“There you go, trying to ditch me again.” His thousand-watt smile turns back on and steals the breath straight out of my lungs. “Are there any other famous mob-hit locations in the neighborhood, or is this your last stop?”

“There’s one more,” I hear myself say. Shite. How am I supposed to relax when he’s smiling at me like that? If he concentrated the full power of that smile on a stick of butter, it would be a gooey puddle in seconds. Needing a distraction from his face, I consult my mob hit guide. “McCaffrey Park. Is that close?”

“Right down the street.” He ticks his head in that direction. “Ready?”

No, I’m not ready. For one thing, he’s a stranger in an unfamiliar city and might be planning to harvest my organs. Two, he’s fresh and stunning, while I’m in ratty trainers and wearing a purple backpack like an oversized toddler. And three . . . I just have a feeling mysterious Jack is going to be bad news for me. Call it a sixth sense or common sense or what have you, but this ride with the bad boy smile has trouble oozing out of his pores.

This should be a no-brainer. When a stranger shows an unlikely interest in me, it’s probably for the best to avoid walking with him to a dark park where mob hits have taken place. Just as a rule. I’ve been expected to act beyond reproach my entire life, though. I barely survived a strict Catholic upbringing before being thrust under the Olympic microscope. Every day of my life has been scheduled and executed without fail.

This man is not on my agenda.

Then again, I did promise myself adventure during this two-week trip. Swore to myself I would fulfil a vow to someone I love, by living without constraint. After being under my father’s thumb so long, I’m so light. So without responsibilities, I didn’t even take the time to clean up after my flight, throwing on my runners and bursting out of the hotel. Could Jack be part of my adventure?

No, it’s impossible. Surely he’s filming a romantic comedy down the street and he’s method acting right now. Then again, those piano fingers . . . the way he acted so surprised that I would point them out has me reluctantly intrigued.

His green eyes cloud with disappointment the longer I take to answer him, though. His smile winds down in degrees until his mouth is nothing more than a grim line. I’m about to turn him down for the walk to the park, when he says, “No hard feelings, Katie. Huh?” He winks, but it’s a sad one. “Even if it is going to take me a damn long while to forget those eyes.”

My heart is in my mouth when he goes. His hands shovel into his pockets and he walks backward a few paces, keeping me in his sights, before turning and strolling down the block. It’s insane, the anxious bubbles that begin to pop in my belly. My hands tighten into fists at my sides and the backpack starts to feel heavy. “Wait,” I shout. Then I cringe. Because everyone on the sidewalk, including Jack, turns to look at me. “Ah . . . sure go on. Just the walk, then?”

Even from a distance, Jack’s mouth spreading into a slow smile is breathtaking.

As I walk toward him, my feet on the warm concrete seem to be chanting one word.

Trouble, trouble, trouble.