FIFTY-THREE

“MY God, Clare, you look sexy.”

“I do?”

Three hours after Franco left my duplex, I was standing on my bedroom rug, watching Quinn snap on a nearby lamp and prop himself up for a better view. His smile spread slowly in the soft light, but his ice blue eyes were already wide, which surprised me.

A few minutes ago, he was snoring away in my four-poster. Now he’d caught me in the light, blinking as blankly as the proverbial deer on a country road—not quite as buck naked, but close.

“Do me a favor, sweetheart, don’t move.”

“Why?”

“I’m taking mental pictures . . .”

I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks, but Mike’s eyes took me in with such love, I let the moment linger.

During my brief trip to the bathroom, I’d thrown on my short terry robe, which was now gaping open rather lewdly. Sophia’s stunning ruby earrings were still dangling from my lobes. And strapped to my feet, like Hans Christian Andersen’s red shoes, were Sophia’s stilts—the reason for the latter was a story in itself . . .

A few hours earlier, I’d kept my promise to Franco and made enough creamy fettuccine Alfredo for two generous helpings plus leftovers. I fulfilled my dessert promise, too, by serving him a stack of our Village Blend “Globs”—fudgy circles of chocolate decadence with hints of espresso in the deep, rich background (a storied recipe once served in Soho decades ago, now insanely popular on our menu downstairs).

Taking his coffee to go, along with a few Globs for the road, Franco wished me a good night. Then I cleaned up the kitchen and settled in on the living room sofa to wait for Quinn.

I’d kept the extra Alfredo warm for his midnight snack. More than a thoughtful gesture, I hoped to grill him (between enriched forkfuls of pasta) about his feud with McNulty.

But by the time Mike got back to my duplex, he wasn’t hungry for food. Or much interested in talking.

I didn’t blame him. It was our first night together since he’d proposed. He’d even stopped somewhere between Midtown and the Village to pick up a bouquet of flowers.

They never made it to a vase.

The reason? Though I’d taken off Sophia’s stilts to make Franco’s Alfredo, the moment I heard Mike’s key in the lock, I decided (for the heck of it) to strap back into those stylish torture devices and strike a pose.

My toes protested, but I persuaded them it might be worth it.

Sitting on the sofa, I crossed my legs. When Mike’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, I attempted an alluring smile.

“Franco claimed you liked the shoes. But I have my doubts. What do you think?”

Mike didn’t say a word. He simply gave me the flowers, dropped a kiss on my lips, and lifted me in an old fireman’s carry. My feet were more than willing to accept the lift upstairs.

As it turned out, they wouldn’t have to bear my weight again until I woke up, hours later, in the master bedroom, thoroughly naked, except for the ruby earrings and “very nice” shoes, which I realized, upon rubbing my eyes clear of sleep, were still strapped to my feet . . .

And that’s how I came to be standing on those stilts in my bedroom’s low lamplight, watching the smile widen on the face of my new fiancé.

“Looks like Franco was half right,” I told Quinn.

“Excuse me?”

“I can see you do like the shoes. But he was wrong about the beating.”

“What beating?”

“Franco said because the brass sent you through some kind of sensitivity training, the words you look sexy wouldn’t come out of your mouth if I beat you with a nightstick.”

Quinn arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like fun. You wanna try it?”

“What? Beating you with a nightstick? No need, Detective, you just said the words!”

“Oh, sure, in the privacy of the bedroom. But outside that door, believe me, it’s back to ‘you look very nice’ . . . and, for the record, I haven’t carried a nightstick in years. So if you want to use one on me, you’ll have to find your own.”

“Well, I am resourceful.”

“That you are.”

“And observant.”

“Agreed.”

“Which is why I’m fairly sure I’ll find a stiff object under those covers.”

“Clare Cosi! I’m shocked, shocked at your bawdy insinuation!”

“I’m sorry, Officer, did I offend your delicate sensibilities?”

“I think I need a safe space.”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought it up.”

“Another actionable innuendo.”

“I said brought it up, Quinn, not get it up.”

“So you did . . .” He turned down the bedcovers. “Care to investigate?”

“Absolutely,” I said and slowly walked toward him.

I’m sure Mike thought I was trying for a sexy sashay, but (frankly) between the blisters on my feet and these cruel shoes, slow was the only speed possible.