Sharp laughed so hard, he wheezed.

“It’s not funny,” Lance said.

“You’re right. It’s not.” But his boss’s voice shook.

“That was the worst job ever. I don’t know what bothered me more, the flying bullets or the melodrama.” Lance took a few deep breaths. “Not sure where we stand on the case.”

“Not much you can do when the client loses her frigging mind.” Sharp’s voice sobered. “Seriously, I’m glad she didn’t shoot you.”

“I don’t know about this PI thing. I still miss being a cop,” Lance said.

“I know that, and I know why,” Sharp said. “Do you think I don’t remember what day it is?”

Lance’s throat tightened. Twenty-three years ago, his father had vanished. Sharp had been in charge of the case.

“I understand the desire to protect and serve. I did it for twenty-five years. But being a PI is better in a lot of ways. You’re your own boss. You make your own decisions. No one can order you to stop investigating a case.” Sharp’s mouth tightened. That was exactly what had happened to him when leads on Lance’s dad’s case went cold. “But if that’s what you really want, then keep working on your recovery.”

“More crunchy-granola-woowoo crap?”

“Bash it all you want.” Sharp crossed his arms. “You’re better, and you know it. You were pushing too hard and not letting your body heal. Didn’t your physical therapist give you the go ahead to get on the ice?”

“I’m allowed fifteen minutes of light skating.” Lance had played hockey in high school, and eighteen months ago, he’d been volunteered to serve as an assistant coach to a bunch of disadvantaged kids through a police outreach program. The shooting had benched him. He missed hockey—and the kids—more than he’d expected.

His therapist had actually cleared him weeks ago, but he hadn’t set foot on the ice yet. As much as he wanted to play, it wasn’t worth the risk of an injury. One fall could wipe out all his progress. He’d stick with coaching from the sidelines.

Sharp rolled his eyes. “You know I’m right.”

He was. Damn it.

Besides, he could hardly make fun of Sharp’s lifestyle. The man could still run a seven-minute mile and do muscle-ups.

“All right, but I still wish this was whiskey.” Lance drained his cup of green tea. Three months ago, he would have stopped at a bar on the way home for a couple of shots. Tonight, he’d go home and make an antioxidant protein shake.

“Get some sleep.” Sharp got up and walked around the desk.

Lance stood. “A solid eight hours is next on my agenda.”

Did he know how to party or what?

But ten months after being shot, he finally thought maybe he could fully recover. That his police career might not be over. That he could get back to coaching and the active lifestyle he missed.

His phone rang and he read the display.

Morgan.

If there was one person who could tempt him away from his bed—or into it—it was Morgan Dane. He was treated to a quick mental vision of her in his bed, all tousled, no trace of her usual perfection, thanks to him.

He almost rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of his imagination. He’d known the Danes since high school. He and Morgan had dated during senior year. They’d liked each other back then with the usual awkward teenage crushes, but when they’d left for college, neither one of them had been devastated. Nothing had prepared him for the bulldozer effect she’d had on him when he’d run into her a few months before. Morgan seemed only interested in being his friend, and he was in no position to have a relationship.

So be cool.

He answered the call. “Morgan?”

“Did I wake you?” Her tone was breathless, which didn’t help.

At. All.

Lance stepped into the hall. “No. I was up.”

A glance at the digital clock reminded him it was nearly one a.m. Why would Morgan call him in the middle of the night? Concern brought his puppy love to heel.

“What’s wrong?”

“My babysitter, Tessa, didn’t come home tonight. Her grandparents are worried. I’m going to look for her in the usual teenage hangout locations. Would you be willing to ride along with me?”

“Of course. I’ll be at your house in fifteen minutes.” He ended the call.

You were going to be cool, remember?

“I thought you were going to get some sleep?” Sharp stood in the doorway.

“Morgan needs help.” Lance stopped in his office to remove his Glock from the gun safe in the closet. After the disaster of the Brown case, he wasn’t taking any chances, especially with Morgan’s safety. On that note, he returned to the safe for his backup piece and ankle holster.

“You have it bad for her. Just ask the woman out already,” Sharp called as Lance walked past his office.

Lance reached for the doorknob. “Goodnight, Sharp.”

If only it was that simple. But he had enough responsibility on his plate just managing his mother’s mental illness. After his dad disappeared, his mom developed severe anxiety and agoraphobia. She’d been relatively stable for the past few months, but there were times when taking care of her was a full-time job. And on top of Lance’s issues, Morgan had her own freighter of emotional baggage and three kids.

Three.

Anyone who seriously dated Morgan had to consider that a future with her included being a father to her girls. Lance didn’t see how he could possibly do the job right, and he would not half-ass something as important as parenthood. Kids deserved better.

He lowered the window of his Jeep, hoping the brisk September night was enough to cool his jets. It wasn’t. He turned up the radio and shaved three minutes off his drive to the Danes’ house as Green Day blasted him awake.

Parking his Jeep next to her minivan, he walked up to the front door but didn’t knock. No reason to wake the sleeping members of the family. He peered through the screen door and called softly, “Morgan?”

Her grandfather, Art, came out of the kitchen and waved him into the house, Morgan’s French bulldog, Snoozer, at his feet.

Lance stepped inside just as Morgan hurried down the hall toward him. She was tall and slim, with big blue eyes and legs that went on forever. Her clothes were uncharacteristically tossed on, and her long black hair was down and tumbled in messy waves over her shoulders in much the same way as it had been in his earlier vision.

Sharp was right. Lance had it bad. But he was an adult, and he’d act like one.

“Thanks for helping.” Art shook his hand. Then he turned and gave his granddaughter a kiss on the cheek. “Be safe. I love you.”

She hugged him. “Love you back.”

Lance opened the door for her, and they went outside. She stuffed her cell phone in her gigantic purse, slung the straps over her shoulder, and walked toward her mom mobile.

“We’ll take my Jeep. Teenagers like to go off-road.” Lance would take a bullet for Morgan, but he drew the line at riding in her minivan.

“Good thinking.” Morgan nodded and changed direction.

They got into his vehicle. He started the engine, and music blasted. He turned the volume to low. “Sorry. Where to?”

Her lips pursed. “I don’t know. Her grandmother gave me her best friend’s number. The girl didn’t answer her phone. I left a message. I thought we could check some of the usual hangout spots. I was hoping you would know where the kids go these days.”

“I have some ideas.” Lance had broken up plenty of parties in his time on the police force. “Who’s handling the case?”

“Carl Ripton came to the house, but I’m not sure what he can do. Tessa is eighteen. She walked out willingly. No crime there.”

Lance pulled out his phone and dialed Carl’s number. His former coworker gave him the rundown on what the SFPD was doing to find the girl. Lance thanked him and ended the call. “They put out a BOLO alert for her. No sightings of her car yet, and her cell phone GPS isn’t sending out a signal. Unfortunately, she’s a legal adult. Carl said none of the girl’s friends would give him any information.”