Page 18 of Diesel’s Desire

“I’m not the same guy who stood in that parking lot,” I say. “Seventeen years does that to a man.”

“I know.” Her voice goes quieter too. “I’m not the same girl who left.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Good,” I say again. “Because I don’t want to pick up where we left off. I want the woman sitting in front of me right now. Cop and all.”

Her throat works as she swallows something she doesn’t want to say out loud, and across the street Sasha watches us through the truck window, entirely too pleased with how this is playing out.

“Dinner,” Penny says slowly, like she’s turning the word over, looking for the catch. “As what, exactly?”

“As whatever you want it to be.” I hold her gaze steady, refuse to blink first, because I’m done letting her walk away without at least making her work for it. “Two people. One table. See what happens.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t say yes, doesn’t say no, just sits there with her arms crossed over her chest. I’ve got no idea which way this falls until she finally exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath since I sat down.

“I finish my shift at six,” she says.

Not a yes. Not exactly. But it’s not a no either, and after years of nothing but silence and stolen glances at red lights, I’ll take whatever crack in the door I can get.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” I say, standing before she can change her mind, before either of us can talk ourselves back into whatever safe distance we’ve been keeping for almost two decades.

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no.” I’m already backing toward the curb, toward the truck, toward Sasha’s expectant face watching us both through the windshield with entirely too much interest. “Seven o’clock, Penny.”

She doesn’t call after me. Doesn’t tell me not to bother showing up.

That’s good enough for tonight.

12

PENNY

Five minutes to seven and I’ve worn a groove into my own living room floor.

Thunder watches me from the couch, head propped on his paws, dark eyes tracking my path from the window to the hallway mirror and back again like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I wish I could tell him. I wish I understood it myself.

I smooth the front of my dress for the tenth time, a soft green thing I bought on a whim two years ago and never had an occasion to wear. My mirror shows a woman who spent forty minutes deciding whether her hair should be up or down, then put it up, then took it down, then finally left it down because up felt like trying too hard, and either way I’m mortified at myself for caring this much.

He’s a criminal. I remind myself of that fact like it’s new information, like I haven’t spent a year filing reports that circle his club’s business without ever quite landing on proof.

You investigate men like him for a living.

My body doesn’t seem to care about the badge in my nightstand drawer. My body’s been thinking about the way he looked at me, steady and unblinking, like he’d already decided something and was just waiting for me to catch up.

Headlights sweep across my front window at three minutes to seven, and my stomach drops the way it used to right before a big game, right before I’d watch him take a hit that should’ve put him on the ground and get right back up instead.

I peek through the curtain.

A truck. Not the bike.

Relief hits me harder than I expect, sharp and immediate, because I am absolutely not ready to be pressed up against him on two wheels tonight, thighs bracketing his hips, my dress riding up in a way that would leave nothing to the imagination. The truck is safer. The truck gives us both a little distance.

Small mercies.

He knocks before I’ve even finished breathing out, two solid raps against the door, and I don’t make him wait. I pull it open, because standing there staring at a closed door feels somehow worse than facing him head-on.