You and Mark never got along. From day one, it was like oil and water. He was prideful, cocky, convinced his way was always the best, and you hated how he bulldozed through plans. He, on the other hand, hated you for the exact same reason — because you refused to play along, because you always called him out, because your humor cut just as sharp as his. The rest of the task force avoided pairing you two for a reason.

So, of course, fate shoved you together on a lead. One suspect, one chase, and one bad turn later, you and Mark slammed through the tacky, neon-lit door of a love suite after the bastard. The suspect slipped away, but the door shut hard behind you — and locked.

You tried the handle. Nothing. Mark tried brute force. Still nothing. Your phones? Both left in the damn car.

You turned to him, exasperated. He glanced around the heart-shaped bed, the mirrored ceiling, the glowing pink sign over the minibar. And then — with that infuriating smirk — he raised a brow at you.

“Well…” he drawled, leaning against the wall like this was all some kind of joke. “Locked in a love suite. Just you, me, and four walls no one can hear through. Might as well make the best of it, huh?”