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A burst of warmth steals the last of the cold from my skin. Arms frozen on either side of her, my fingers twitch with the need to touch her again. Spasm with the urge to drop her coat and wrap her in my arms.
Until she peeks over her shoulder and meets my gaze, her brows bent in confusion.
Heat crawls up my neck to my cheeks. I shake off my daydream and hang her jacket on her chair. “Sorry.”
Soft laughter hits my ears as I return to my seat. Eyes on the menu, she says, “No need to apologize. Just glad there’s nothing wrong.” Her eyes lift and meet mine across the table. “Thought maybe I had something in my hair. Since adopting Trixie, I’ve been gifted many undesirable things.”
“Trixie?”
Dropping her menu, she winces. “Obviously, I’ve lost my wits too.” With a roll of her eyes, she shakes her head. “I adopted a kitten. Swear I told you.”
“With a name like Trixie, she’s bound to be a handful,” I tease.
“Shush you.”
The server sidles up to the table, deposits a glass of water at each of our place settings, and greets Kirsten by name after welcoming me in. After minor deliberation, we order drinks and dinner.
Silence forms a tense bubble around our table as Kirsten traces the condensation drops on her water glass. In the time I’ve known Kirsten, she has never been so reticent. The last time she was this reserved—that I recall—was when her dad was killed. The happy-go-lucky girl I’d known most of my formative years retreated into herself. Smiles she once gifted so easily—gone. Laughter and teasing I heard more often than not—absent. The goofball I wanted to spend every minute with—nowhere to be found.
The woman across the table has a hint of that dark cloud hovering over her now.
Arm extended, I lay a hand on the table as I glimpse her features.
Shoulders caved, she slouches in her seat as she draws patterns in the condensation on her glass. Chin slightly tucked, she rolls her lips back and forth, occasionally biting one corner, then the other. But it’s the constant scrunching then smoothing of her brows that throws me the most.
Is she nervous? Has something else happened? Have the gossipmongers made her more uncomfortable? Is she safe?
Not that I trust him, but that prick of a cop said he’d keep her safe. I may not be a violent person, but knocking the smirk off his face would bring me extreme pleasure.
“Everything okay?” I sip my water, then return it to the table. “You seem down.”
Stormy irises meet my gaze, more gray than blue today—like her mood. The corners of her mouth tip up in a strained smile as she sits a fraction taller. Her fingers fall away from her glass. “I’m good.” The words hold no conviction.
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Really, everything is fine.”
Still, I’m not convinced. So I try another tactic. “They apprehended the killer?”
Her momentary wince is all the answer I need.
“Let’s talk about something else,” she suggests. “How’s the library coming along?”
For now, I humor her and go with the change of subject. But the topic is far from dropped.
I update her on the project and that we hope to wrap up next week. I don’t mention wanting to stay in town longer to spend time with her. Something tells me that will only spark another redirection of our conversation. Smile wide on my lips, I share more about my work crew and what has changed in Smoky Creek since she left. The more I share, the brighter her smile becomes.
And damn, I want to see that smile every day.
Steamy bowls of chowder are deposited on the table—hers with shrimp and lobster, mine with shrimp, clams, and bacon—followed by a loaded basket of crusty garlic and herb bread.
Eager for the first bite, I scoop a little of everything onto my spoon and bring it to my lips. But just as I open my mouth to taste it, a moan floats across the table and cuts me off. Beneath the table, my dick twitches against my zipper and I mentally tell it to stand down. Spoon an inch from my mouth, I stare at her closed eyes. Two breaths pass before our gazes lock and she swallows.
In the middle of a bustling restaurant, we are statues—still and silent and unsure of what to do next.
Kirsten chuckles, breaking the silence. Lifting a napkin to her lips, she wipes her mouth, her cheeks a little flush with embarrassment. My eyes refuse to look anywhere but at her.
“Been a while since I’ve had their chowder. Sorry.”
