By the time Erica walked in her front door, she had only thirty minutes until Coop arrived. They hadn’t seen each other since that kiss, and the days in between had dragged more than she wanted to admit.
Twice, they’d rescheduled this dinner, both times because he was buried under the fallout from the jail deaths. She’d seen the headlines, even the brief quote from Rangers Lt. Cooper saying he couldn’t comment on an active investigation. She understood. Really, she did. But it didn’t stop her from missing him or from feeling like they’d left something unfinished.
The house smelled of basil, garlic, and slow-simmered tomatoes. The chicken she’d thrown into her slow cooker that morning had clearly done its job. “One thing is under control, at least,” she muttered.
Upstairs, she stripped out of her clothes and slipped into the shower, leaving her hair alone. It took too long to dry, and she didn’t have time to wrestle with the straightener. She washed quickly, scrubbing away the day.
By the time she got out, her hair had taken on a wild, humidity-born life of its own. With the clock ticking, shebrushed it into submission, twisted it up, and secured it with her favorite clip.
Her dress was a pale summer blue, sleeveless, fitted through the bodice, and flowing from the waist. She slipped into sandals and was halfway down the stairs when the knock came.
Her heart flipped when she opened the door. He looked freshly showered, hair still damp, shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Slow and unapologetic, his gaze swept over her. She felt it like a caress.
What sparked in the gallery hadn’t ended. They’d just hit pause.
He was inside before her next breath, shutting the door with his foot. His hand slid into her hair, finding the twist. The clip slipped free, and her hair fell around her shoulders.
“I spent ten minutes on that,” she breathed.
“Waste of ten minutes,” he murmured.
His hand stayed tangled in her hair, the other sliding down past her waist and under the light fabric at her hip.
She gasped when his fingers skimmed the bare curve of her thigh beneath the hem. He hooked her leg around his hip, pulling her flush against him.
She felt him hard and insistent against her, his heat bleeding through the thin layers between them. Her breath came out shallow and uneven, her fingers curling instinctively into his shirt.
“Vince,” she whispered.
“I’ve been thinking about kissing you for the past forty-eight hours.”
“Me too,” she breathed, straining on the toes of one foot to reach his mouth.
Then he did, nothing careful about it. It was hungry and possessive, enough to weaken her knees. The hand tangled in her hair tilted her head. His mouth left hers only long enoughto trail along her jaw, down her throat, teeth grazing lightly over sensitive skin. Warm palms glided upward; rougher fingertips traced the edge of her panties.
Breathing hard, he dragged his mouth away like it took effort.
They were both flushed. Slightly wrecked.
She blinked up at him, dazed. “Good to see you,” she said breathlessly. “Would you like to come in?”
He huffed a quiet laugh, sheepish now that oxygen had returned. They both glanced around, as if remembering the foyer existed.
Then he sniffed. “Is something burning?”
Her eyes widened. “Cheese and rice. Not again.”
She ducked under his arm and bolted for the kitchen.
Dinner wasn’t ruined. The sauce had thickened and caramelized a little. They sat across from each other at her small kitchen table and tried to exercise a little self-control like civil adults.
They failed.
Every look lingered. Every accidental brush of hands sparked.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “How was your day?”
She talked while they ate, about her class, the new students, the artist who’d shown up a week early and stood in the middle of everything with his portfolio like that was perfectly reasonable.
