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wrong.
    “It’s red,” he said with a shrug, walking around the island and handing her the bottle of Cabernet, her sky blue eyes widening as he reached his hand out and ran it along a soft lock of long hair, where it curled down to lay against her chest. “Pretty.”
    “Thanks,” she whispered, both to the gift and the compliment, as she placed the wine in a rack alongside several others, her hand a little unsteady. “Color doesn’t matter to me. If it’s wine, then I’ll drink it.”
    Sam didn’t move, hovering in the space she had just occupied, her reaction to him fascinating. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a woman nervous. The vipers he seemed to attract always went straight for the jugular.
    “I have a vast array of beer for you to choose from. A plethora, really.” She ticked them off on her hand. “Light, lager or ale. Blonde, dark, or fruit flavored. Did you know that they sell beer flavored ice cream in Germany? And that a beer enthusiast is called a cerevisaphile?”
    Skittish to confident in a matter of seconds? Yeah, this girl was going to be trouble.
    Nodding at the pale ale she held out to him, he twisted the cap off and tossed it on the counter. “I don’t think I want to be known as anything ending in phile. But I could get on board with the ice cream.”
    Making a face, she motioned him to the sofa, glass of wine in her hand as she settled on the opposite end from him. They watched in silence as Pete circled a spot on the sisal area rug next to them before lying down, asleep within seconds.
    “So,” her lips twisted. “I feel like I should say... how was your day, dear?”
    He grinned. “Same as they usually are. Busy with a little bit of bullshit. Yours?”
    She made a non-committal sound that meant fine. “What is it that you do?”
    It was a classic deflection and one Sam had used himself many times but he played along, telling her about his company and waiting for her eyes to glaze over, something he was used to seeing, given his usual airheaded evening companions. But Ali listened intently, nodding and commenting when appropriate, and it made him ridiculously happy to think she was actually interested. And when they went through the routine question and answer session that usually took place on a first date, his hot new neighbor continued to listen more than she talked, reluctantly telling him she grew up in Chicago before going to school in Michigan, where she had remained after college until the hope of never seeing snow again had brought her to the West Coast. Oh, and she preferred steak over fish, baseball over ballet, and peanut butter without jelly.
    Those were the only details Ali seemed willing to give up.
    Fully aware that she was intentionally skimming the surface, Sam didn’t push her for any more information, letting her keep her emotional distance. If this thing between them, this crazy fucking pull he felt towards her, went any deeper than the physical, though, all bets were off.
    And then the enchanting mystery that was Ali Ross grew when he asked her what she did for a living, thinking that it must pay pretty goddamn well, considering the cost of this house.
    Pausing, she assessed him thoughtfully before answering. “I write true crime books. Mostly modern day, sensationalized cases about the really grisly stuff. Murder, torture, rape kind of thing.” She shrugged, as if talking about the weather. “The more high-profile, gruesome and graphic the crimes, the more the public wants the details.”
    His brows shot up in shock. “No shit?”
    Ali laughed. “No shit.”
    “Do you actually talk to them? Meet them? The people who’ve committed these crimes.”
    “If they’re still alive. And if they’ll speak with me. Sometimes I can only get phone interviews, but I prefer to meet them face to face, if possible. It depends on the state the crime was committed in and the judge who handed down the sentence. Or the prison warden, in some cases. The