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I want to tell him no, but I say, “Fine,” with a huff.
He watches me get into the car. His partner, who looks vaguely familiar, comes up to him with a man in handcuffs.
CHAPTER 21
Istill can’tbelieve I’m driving to Theo’s house. I shake my head and consider taking the next exit to turn around. What I need to do is forget about everything Theo Fox. We’ve both been trained to be each other’s enemy. If this got out, people would assume the worst. Yet, I can’t make myself leave. My body hums with anticipation of his hands on my body. I can’t let that happen. What I’ll do is thank him for helping me and leave to go on my way. I make myself a promise that I won’t see Theo again after this.
I sit in my car, convincing myself of all the things I need to be doing. When I get home, I’ll tell my father I want to be the family’s lawyer. It makes sense; after all, I’m not sure why I was shying away from it before. If something were to happen to them, I’d want to help. It’s the same need I feel when I think about Katrina. I have this desire to protect everyone. I can make that happen.
Theo’s car pulls up beside mine, and I wait for him to get out before I do. He gives me a short nod as he walks to the door. Keeping my head down, I can smell his cologne as I follow after him. Each step I stay immersed in his shadow, my heart beating to the pattern of his steps. The door closes behind me with a sharp finality of a solid thud. Theo pushes his body against mine. My back is held by the door as he gives me those delicious, thought-forgetting kisses. Naturally, I melt into him, kissing him back. There’s an edgy trickle of excitement running through my veins with his warmth pressed against me. It disappears before I can grasp hold of the feeling, and cold air takes its place. Opening my eyes, he’s two steps away from me.
A smirk plays on his lips that lights up his face. “You’re bad for my soul, Aria.” His thumb and forefinger run down each side of his chin like he’s trying to decide what to do with me.
“I wouldn’t call you a perfect match either.”
He sighs like he’s disappointed in himself. “I can’t help but be drawn to you. You’re a deadly magnet to my compass. When you’re around, all I can see is you.”
“Maybe it’s time to break the compass and find your own way.”
He tilts his head like he’s taking in what I’m saying. “I gotta change my clothes.” He turns to go to his bedroom, leaving me standing, unsure if I should go sit in the living room. “You coming?” he asks, not looking behind him.
He goes into his room, unlatches his gun, and places it on his bedside table along with his handcuffs before he strips down to his boxers.
“Why did you become a cop?” On his dresser, there’s an old family photo of what looks like his parents and him at a young age. But other than that, there is no character to his room or house. There’s nothing that shows his personality.
“My father was a cop.” He pauses, putting on a shirt. “Here, actually.”
“Is he retired?”
As he takes a seat on his bed, I watch him put on some gray sweatpants that leave nothing to the imagination. I’m able to see the complete outline of his package through his pants.I love a good pair of men’s slut pants.
“No, both my parents are dead.” His voice has an edge to it, but he shows no sign of annoyance.
“That has to be tough. How old were you when they died?”
“My father died on duty when I was eight. My mother passed away five years ago.”
“That’s awful.” I can’t imagine what I would do if my parents weren’t around.
“It is what it is.”
When he stands, I go to place my arms around his torso, hugging him. He holds stiff, and when he realizes I’m not letting go, he hugs me back.
“Can I make you dinner?” he asks, kissing the top of my head.
I smile into his chest. A man has never cooked me dinner before. “I would love that.”
“Come on.” He leads me to his kitchen, where he pulls out ingredients. I was expecting this to be more like a booty call, where we’d fuck, then I’d go. My heart flutters, liking him cooking and me watching. The gesture is small, but my heart leaps with hope. What if this was our normal? Me coming over, us cooking.
He takes out a bottle of red wine and pours me a glass.
“Did you just take the wine from the fridge?”
He chuckles. “I know it’s strange. But there’s something to be said about cold red wine.”
I wrinkle my nose. “They’re meant to be at room temperature,” I correct.
“Italians—always thinking they know wines better than anyone,” he teases me.
