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“I think you’ll like it.”
I kept a hand on her thigh as we ordered, and the spicy scent of ginger and peppers filled the space as we sampled the various dishes. I kissed her neck and buried my nose beneath her hair to inhale. She smelled like vanillaandsex. I was addicted to the combination.
She chose fried bananas with ice cream and dark chocolate sauce for dessert. While we waited, I turned toward her to angle my hand up her leg. She was wearing the dark purple top with a deep V that I picked out earlier at Nordstrom while she was with Amanda. It made me want to bury myself in her softness there. I would have to wait for that. More anticipation. There was so much I wanted to explore with Jo.
Her eyes sparkled, and I stroked up her thigh through the soft black jeans to the seam resting against her center. The sparkle turned to a warning as our waiter arrived with dessert. The vanilla ice cream on my tongue didn’t cool my desire at all.
I’d never been this obsessed with a woman. I physically could not stop touching her, smelling her, wanting her. She was with me, and I wanted to keep it that way, but I didn’t know how. Women floated into my life, and I expected them to float right back out again. I didn’t want Jo to float out, but I had no idea how to make someone stay or how to do forever.
I filled the rest of the weekend with the feel of Jo’s skin against mine, her smell, and her laughter. There were quiet moments, too, reading or napping by the fireplace while the rain streamed down the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment. We cooked together in as little clothing as was safe, and I soaked in the city’s lights below us with Jo’s reflection added in the darkened glass. My home was never more like home, and she was the reason.
The drive back to Perry Harbor Sunday evening was quiet. I was reliving every moment of the weekend and trying to figure out how to recreate it as often as possible. Jo watched the scenery with a small smile gracing her tempting lips. Lips I didn’t want to release when I dropped her off at her apartment.
“Stay the night with me?” The hope in my voice surprised me.
“I have work at four in the morning. It’s hard enough to go in at that hour. Leaving your bed may make it impossible.” I agreed, reluctantly, with a promise to see her as a chef on Wednesday for a cooking lesson followed by some sexy time with my girl.
I pulled into my driveway and sat in my car, looking at the house. It was evening, and its brown brick facade, unusual for this area, glowed in the landscape lights. The grass was spring-green, and the tulips bordering the small front portico would burst forth with color any day now.
I was thinking of this house as mine, not Emily’s. Maybe more than my apartment in the city, again because of Jo. I was falling for her, but I couldn’t stop myself. For a flash, I pictured a lifetime of falling asleep and waking every day wrapped around Jo’s warmth and softness.
My phone ringing startled me out of a daze.
“Lucas Bakker?” The firm voice of Detective Rivers echoed in my ear.
“Yes, Detective. How are you? How’s the case?”
“We have a few more things to close the loop on, but you should be back in Seattle soon. Any trips coming up in the next few weeks?” Her tone was casual, but I sensed there was more to it than my social calendar.
“Nothing planned. I was in Seattle this weekend, actually.”
“Good. Stay local. We’ll need you to come in to make a statement.”
“I already gave my statement. I haven’t recalled anything else about the deal with Cole and the origin of the code we used,” I said.
“As I mentioned, the case expanded, and we’re diving deeper into Mr. Dennent’s business and personal acquaintances. Your name has come up again, and we have a few more questions.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be in touch.” She clicked off.
Back to Seattle. And more questions about the case? I’d already told them everything I knew about Cole Dennent.
32
LUCAS
Tomorrow wasthe first of April and the official opening of the month-long Tulip Festival. We erected tents on the grassy lawn between the farmhouse and the barns. One housed the gift shop for purchasing bulbs and garden items. A smaller one held tables for visitors to sit and relax with a hot coffee and Mom’s fresh-baked cookies. We positioned each tent to have a spectacular view of the acres of colorful blooms stretching to the island’s edge.
It had been years since I’d been around for all these preparations. In recent years, I’d blown in for the party, stayed for opening weekend, and that was about it. It felt good to use my hands and work up a sweat lifting poles and moving boxes of bulbs and other stuff for a change.
Mom was hosting a special evening farm meal in the big barn, complete with a bar and a DJ in a few hours. We were expected to wear something nice. Nice dress in the tech world could mean no stains on your T-shirt and jeans. Mom was not in the tech world.
“Are you wearing your plaid sports coat tonight?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” I loved my Peter Millar plaid sports coat. Jeans and a sports coat were thebusiness suitof tech. I wore that jacket for a lot of big events in my career. It was my favorite, but I hadn’t worn it since I came home three months ago. I hadn’t missed it. Weird.
With the warehouse and greenhouses, planting, weeding, the festival, the harvest, and the cover crops, our crews worked hard all year and tonight’s party, along with a bonus, was a way to say thanks. We were expecting about sixty or seventy for dinner, and Jo was catering, with the help of a few of her colleagues from the hotel and Eduardo, the son of our head grower, Luis. Eduardo was a skilled cook. His empanada truck always had a line.
