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“You clean up real nice, Lieutenant.” And he does. Dressed in a black suit and tie, he could rival any manI’ve ever dated—if he didn’t look so uncomfortable. But as it is, he fidgets, shifting from foot to foot as if he wants to tear the tie off and start running.
“I’d say the same, but it would be a lie.”
I arch my eyebrows.
“You always seem perfectly put together,” he says.
Amused at his observation, I laugh. “If you were to see me when I first get out of bed in the morning, you’d change your tune.”
He angles his face away from me before I can deduce the emotion in them. By the time he looks back, his expression is neutrally set once again. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“Ah, yes, actually. My date. Bernard Leard.”
“Oh.” He glances towards the door. “You’re here for the fundraiser then?”
“I am.”
“With Bernard?”
“Yup.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, but his eyes never leave mine. I can see the questions in them. After a long moment, he indicates to the chair next to me. “Mind if I wait with you?”
“Please.”
The moment he sits, I regret my offer. His big shoulders fill my space, making me impossibly aware of his size and presence. I shimmy my chair a little further away on the pretense of making space to face him but even with the added distance, I can feel him. God, I cansmellwhatever soap he uses. “Is this a work event for you?” I manage, all the while reminding myself that I am literally a social professional.
“It is.” But he grimaces a little as he says it.
“But you’d rather be-”
“Anywhere else,” he says instantly. When I chuckle, he smiles and adds, “Chasing a dealer through a back alley. Talking to a contact in a dive bar. Catherine,” he sighs, “I’d rather be having my nails done in one of those nice-smelling salons you ladies frequent.”
The image of his huge frame tucked into a salon chair brings a genuine grin to my face. “Oh, I’d like to see that.” My eyes unconsciously flit to his hands on the bar. They’re tanned and strong, wide-palmed and long-fingered. A working man’s hands. Capable hands. A few faded circular, white scars that I never noticed before dot the backs.
He follows the direction of my gaze, his hands flexing unconsciously when he notices my attention on them. “What?”
“I’ve seen these before,” I say, gently touching one of the white scars.
His entire body stills at the contact.
But he doesn’t move his hands away.
“I’m not a contagious disease, Mr. Flint.” I move my fingers away from him.
“It’s not…” He flushes. Exhales. “It’s not what you think.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I pick up my drink again.
“Don’t say that.”
Ignoring him, I look pointedly back at his hands. “Who was the smoker?”
“My dad.”
He mentioned when we were in Lizzie’s room that his father wasn’t a nice man, but I understand more about him now. “Antoinette has them on her back.” The fury rises in me when I think about it. “A gift of parental affection too.”
“It was a long time ago,” he says. “I don’t even see them anymore.”
