“Do you do that for other officers on the force?” Alex follows behind me.
I chuckle. “Not unless I want to get teased or hit.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Don’t treat me differently just because I’m a woman. Treat me like one of the guys.”
“Right,” I say.
Only, Alex isn’t one of the guys, obviously. She’s a woman—a fact I’m both trying to honor and ignore. But her point is taken. I’ll give her the same treatment as I do any of the guys when we partner up.
“So,” I say, taking a deep breath that does nothing to steady me.
What was I thinking by bringing her here? The place smells like morning coffee and bachelorhood—too personal, too revealing. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I want her to see the side of me that’s not Officer Heinz. Just me—Jesse.
“I have lasagna. Do you like lasagna?” I toss my keys into the bowl by the door.
Alex lingers behind me on my porch. I can’t see her face when she answers. “I love lasagna. Is it store-bought?” She pauses andthen adds, “Because that’s fine. Beggars can’t be choosers.” Her accent comes out on that last linebeggahsandchoose-ahs.
I step inside, holding the door wide open for her. We’re here now. No backing down.
“The lasagna’s homemade,” I say, flicking the light switch. Warm yellow spills across the room, softening edges, making the space look almost inviting—even to me.
“Did someone bring it over?” she asks, eyes sweeping the room.
She notices everything—the art, the folded blanket draped over the back of the couch. Her eyes land on the stairs. I glance around, trying to imagine how my home appears through someone else’s eyes.
“You want a tour?” I ask. “And, no. I baked it.”
“You baked your own lasagna?”
“I cook,” I tell her. “I’d imagine most single men my age do.”
“You’d be surprised.” Her tone says she’s thinking of at least one person in particular. I wonder who he is—and who he is to her.
“Boyfriend?” I ask, though it wouldn’t make sense if she’s moving here and taking a job.
“Ex. But not only him.”
“Hmm,” I walk toward the kitchen, occupying myself with something other than the strange relief I feel at her confirmation that she’s single.
“So, you cook?” She leans against the counter, ankles crossed, confident in my kitchen like she’s been here before. The sight hits low and unexpected—her ease in my space shouldn’t do something to me, but it does.
I pull the lasagna pan and a bag of salad out of the fridge, grateful for the cold air on my face—it gives me a second to get it together.
“And sometimes, when I’m feeling fancy, I microwave leftovers.” I wag my brows at her and hope it looks smooth instead of convulsant.
She smiles. “Color me impressed.” Her tone’s playful, not taunting. “Let me guess—you do dishes too?”
“Only when someone’s watching,” I say, glancing over at her and smiling. Did I just wink? I think I may have.
She laughs—a real one, full and easy.
I put a plate in the microwave, followed by another. Meanwhile, I chop a few vegetables to add to the salad. When the plates are warm, I hand one to Alex.
“Want to eat here?” I tip my head toward the island. “Or … I have a table.”
“Here’s good,” she says, setting her plate down and tugging out a few drawers before she lands on my silverware. “You own two forks?” Her tone is teasing—again.
“One mouth.” I shrug. “I don’t need a bunch of extra silverware.”
