One brow lifted. “Accountants and programmers?”
She huffed a laugh. “Actually, yes. One of each.”
“Snooze fest,” he murmured. “No wonder it didn’t work out.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “They were nice. Just not… this.”
His thumb brushed her knuckles. “Good. Because I don’t want to be a safe choice.”
“You are, but in the best ways,” she said, and the reality of it sank in, calm, undeniable, and slightly unnerving.
The neighbor’s lights went out, plunging them into darkness. He checked his watch. “It’s later than I planned.”
They didn’t move for a long moment. Then he stood, taking her hand. “Walk me to the front.”
In the foyer, something skittered off his boot. He bent and picked up her hair clip. She reached for it, but he slipped it into his pocket.
“Don’t bother,” he said, eyes darkening. “I like it down.”
Her pulse fluttered as he cupped her chin and kissed her again—deep, lingering, and full of promise.
“I want to see you again.”
“Me too,” she said, leaning in.
“There’s a cookout Saturday. A few of the Rangers and their families.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “Should I bring something?”
“Nope. We’ll talk before then.” He kissed her once more. “Lock up behind me.”
She did it out of habit: dead bolt, chain, set the door alarm. Then she walked to the living room window and watched his taillights fade. She smiled; date number two was very much in the books.
As she looked across the street at the Wilson house, the warm, gushy feeling Coop had given her disappeared. The streetlight glinted off the yellow police tape stretched across the door. Otherwise, the stillness and silence should have been comforting. Instead, a subtle unease crept into her mind.
She told herself it was proximity. Anyone living across the street from the site of a violent murder would feel unsettled. But she suspected her part wasn’t over yet, no matter what Coop thought.
She double-checked the locks on both doors. Only when the house was sealed tight did she head upstairs.
Chapter 15
Coop barely slept. Every time he drifted off, something indistinct moved in the dark. It slipped through a doorway, slowly creeping toward her. It never showed itself, but it was there, looming, just out of reach.
He’d wake with his pulse racing, the image dissolving into Erica across the dinner table, her smile easy and trusting.
The message was clear: danger was closing in, and he needed to protect all that she was—kindness, quiet strength, and beauty that ran far deeper than the surface.
He refused to let the dark overtake her. Not now, not ever.
Sleep didn’t come again. By the time gray light filtered through the window, he still lay staring at the ceiling, his mind running through it all—the crime scenes, the evidence, how the Wilsons, Kedrov, and Burnside fit together.
And then, inevitably, her.
He replayed every kiss. The first in her gallery, curious and interrupted too soon. The one in the foyer, that had quickly turned electric. In her kitchen, hungry and all-consuming. And the last… slow and deep, lingering long after he’d walked out her door.
He wasn’t a man who rushed into feelings. He didn’t get swept up. Each time, he’d left before either of them made a decision they couldn’t take back. But sometime around five in the morning, staring into the fading dark, he admittedsomething uncomfortable. Erica was different. Not because of her gift. He still didn’t know what to make of that.
She was different because she’d gotten under his skin in a way no one ever had. Because in forty-five years, he’d never felt this much this fast.
