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She looked up, and immediately smiled. “Hey, Scott. Great to see you.”
“Great to see you, too. You look…great.”
Great. Testosterone levels restored, Booker skimmed his fingers along the curve of her neck. Too bad their waiter’s attention never wavered from her face.
“You, too,” she replied. “Are you home on break?” To the table, she added, “Scott’s in his—sorry, I forget—third or fourth year of medical school?”
“Third year. We’re on break now, so I’m helping my folks out while I’m home. I fly back tomorrow night.”
The information led Booker to a positive ID. Scott Delaney. His parents owned the restaurant.
“I know it’s last minute, but maybe we could…um…get together later, and catch up?” The blush returned.
Booker trailed his fingers over her earlobe and toyed with her earring. The flash caught lover boy’s eye, and the hopeful smile disappeared.
Sorry, Scottie.
Lauralie shot him an I’ve-got-this look before turning her attention to her admirer. “I’m sorry. I’ve got plans for later.”
“Oh, hey, no problem.” Scott cleared his throat and pressed on. “Maybe next time?”
Maybe never. Lauralie’s hand rested on the table. He slid his palm under hers, threaded their fingers, and deliberately moved their linked hands to his leg—and had the satisfaction of hearing her noncommittal reply hitch in her throat. He kept her hand while Scott took their orders, but when the waiter departed and the conversation turned again to Kate’s nuptials, he shifted in his chair and, beneath the screen of the tablecloth, moved their hands to her lap.
She spared him a raised eyebrow, but otherwise continued with the riveting discussion of veil lengths. He released her hand and eased his fingers between her crossed thighs. Lean muscles jumped under his palm, and then she uncrossed her legs. Despite the invitation, he didn’t explore. He simply kept his hand on her thigh, heavy and still.
A corresponding heaviness flowed into his cock. Persistent, but on the right side of the pain/pleasure spectrum. Lauralie replied to something Kate said, and ran restless fingers along the wide, slouchy neckline of her sweater. The gray knit slipped down to reveal a slender shoulder and the narrow strap of her bra.
The heaviness advanced to an ache. She fiddled with her sweater again, and squirmed in her chair. He tightened his grip on her leg. Without looking his way, she slipped her hand under the table and purposefully grazed his cock before settling on his thigh.
He coughed into his fist to cover a groan, and watched the corner of her mouth twist into a devious smirk. He retaliated by stroking a finger along the inseam of her leggings while Miranda and Kate debated the appropriateness of children at weddings. Miranda referred to them as pint-sized party crashers.
Her hand trembled as she reached for her water. She emptied the glass in a single gulp.
“Would you like more?” he murmured, and inched his finger higher.
“I—”
“Speaking of party crashers,” Miranda interjected, “how long is your mother in town?”
Lauralie jerked back as if someone had slapped her. The pretty flush faded from her cheeks, and she shifted out of his grasp. “My mother isn’t in town.”
“She most certainly is. I saw her New Year’s Eve. She made an appearance at the Montenido Arts Council party I planned at Las Ventanas. I walked her out personally, with the aid of security.”
Sadly, that sounded exactly like Denise. His direct experience with the woman was limited, though uniformly negative. She’d been part of a group arrest for public drunkenness he and Halloran had made one Fourth of July when he’d been a rookie. Another deputy and he had picked her up for shoplifting from a liquor store a few years later. He had secondhand knowledge of some additional incidents, but he wasn’t aware of her visiting Montenido since she’d moved to Los Angeles. He definitely hadn’t known she’d turned up recently. A glance to his right, however, told him the same couldn’t be said for his date. The slight relaxing of her shoulders gave her up.
“She left New Year’s Day,” Lauralie replied. “I drove her to the train station.”
“When?” His question came out sharp, but, dammit, this was new information. Why hadn’t she said something to him?
Her eyes flicked to his, then away. She ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone.”
Counterarguments leaped to his lips, but Scott arrived, balancing plates like a guy who’d grown up waiting tables, and reminding him they were in the middle of dinner with Kate and Miranda. He’d ask later. He knew how to bide his time.
He also knew when someone was hiding something.
…
Mist-heavy air cooled Laurie’s skin. She tightened her hold on the jacket she carried because she was too warm to wear it, and tried to blame Booker for her overheated condition. Resting his arm around the back of her chair, touching her leg, casually handling her at every opportunity. Even if most of the contact was for show, a girl could only withstand so much. The show appeared to have adequately offended Miranda McQueen’s strict social sensibilities, and completely convinced his sister they were dating, not to mention Scott and Jessie. Hell, if she didn’t know better…
