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As Cecily was about to get into her SUV, Bryce called after her. She paused, one hand on the door handle. His long stride covered the remaining distance in seconds.
“Glad I caught you,” he said. “We never finalized dinner.”
“Tonight’s not good,” she said. Let him pick up the ball.
“I’ve got things tomorrow. What about Friday?”
Ball picked up. “That would work.”
“Where?”
He’d said she could choose the place. Tempted to go for something exotic, but knowing it would make Bryce uncomfortable, she mentally ran through some middle-of-the road places. Which, unless they went to the Springs, was as fancy as it got around here. No elaborate place settings with six forks and crystal stemware that broke if you gripped it too hard. But somewhere with tablecloths. Linen napkins. Live music? Maybe. No strolling violinists.
Get real. When have you ever gone to a place with strolling violinists?
Not a budget breaker, either. That wouldn’t be fair, even if she offered to go Dutch. Which she would, but if he wanted to pick up the tab, she’d let him. Not like with Andy. What did that say about her feelings for Bryce?
“What about the Lucky Duck?” she said, choosing a place between Pinon Crest and Manitou Springs. “Or is that too far?”
His smile said it wasn’t. “I’ll make reservations. Seven? Pick you up at six?”
“That’ll be fine.” The way her pulse tripped said it was more than fine, but she wasn’t ready to give her feelings away. Not until she understood them herself.
Which, she’d spend from now until six o’clock Friday figuring out.
Of course, after dinner, things might be totally different. Their first official date, and everyone knew how things could go bad in a heartbeat. Particularly when you were on a date with someone who’d been a good friend. Almost a brotherly friend.
Stop thinking.
She smiled, edged past him—okay, so she intentionally brushed against him—into her car. “See you Friday.”
She drove off, watching him in the rearview. He stood there, all tall and lean, with his broad shoulders, one hip cocked, thumbs hooked through his belt loops. Not moving. Watching her, too?
When she reached the turnoff to the main road and was out of sight, she pulled over and grabbed her cell phone. Scrolling through her contacts, she found the number for the salon in Pinon Crest. “Sarah? Cecily Cooper. Can you work me in for a mani-pedi Friday?” She flipped up the visor and checked her roots in the mirror. She was still okay there. Did Bryce even know she enhanced her boring brown hair to a more vibrant shade of chestnut? “One-thirty? Perfect. See you then.”
She hurried home and unloaded her purchases. After putting away a new sweater, a pair of jeans, a pair of gloves with a matching hat and scarf, and two pairs of shoes, she moved to the pink-striped bag. Carefully, almost reverently, she removed the tissue-wrapped garments. She told herself she liked wearing fine lingerie, and she hadn’t been thinking of Bryce when she’d bought the ivory silk-and-lace bra and panties. Or the red satin nightgown. She held the gown up to herself and did a quick pirouette.
Okay, so maybe he’d crossed her mind when she was deciding what to buy, but that didn’t mean he was going to get to see them.
Didn’t mean he wasn’t, either.
She pulled the matching red robe from the bag. Okay, Bryce had been on her mind when she splurged on this indulgence. Fleece and flannel were her style in robes. Silk and satin were not made for the Colorado mountain climate.
Should it come to that, she had a fireplace. She checked her pantry for cocoa fixings. Or should she offer hot cider? She had wine on hand, and checked what kind. A couple of decent reds, one cheap white.
She’d never seen Bryce drink anything alcoholic other than beer. She could get some tomorrow.
A flush coursed through her. Here she was, assuming she was going to invite Bryce up after dinner. For all she knew, based on what happened every time they’d been in the same place, they’d end up disagreeing, then arguing, then fighting, which would lead to one of them stomping off.
Okay, she stomped. Bryce walked.
She vowed Friday night she’d be civil. More than civil. Friendly. She’d make sure to let him lead the conversation. No mention of her project.
So, in a best case scenario, they’d have a nice dinner, maybe a glass of wine—or beer—and, assuming they didn’t linger too long over dinner, she’d ask if he wanted to come up for—for what? Hot chocolate said things would be platonic. Which is how they’d always been, except now they’d kissed. Kisses that had her wanting more. And not just more kisses.
She stared at her nightgown and robe and laughed out loud. Talk about getting ahead of herself. She could hear herself saying Excuse me while I change into something more comfortable. Knowing Bryce, he’d expect her to come out in sweats. Great. Now she was tempted to utter those words to see the expression on his face when she showed up in her new red negligee.
Too much thinking. She put some leftover chili in the microwave, poured herself a glass of wine, and turned on the news. If anything would stop her from over thinking Friday night, reports of all the bad stuff happening should do it.
As if you don’t get enough of it all day at work.
Even so, she brought her plate to the couch. The local news didn’t say anything about catching their crazed cattle killer, but plenty of the usual. Gang activity was on the upswing, but the cops were cracking down. Two hold-ups—one convenience store, one liquor store. Three shootings. Nothing new there, other than there were no fatalities. Flipping through the channels gave her clones of both the stories and the newscasters.
An overturned semi had traffic on the Interstate at a crawl. Broncos were favored to win next Sunday. Some nice pictures of the leaves turning. Temperatures typical for fall. A token feel-good story about elementary school kids helping out at a nursing home.
She finished her dinner, washed her dishes and changed into sweats—which had her revisiting the thoughts of Friday night she’d been trying to banish. Some quality time with Helping Through Horses might help. She could add her own observations of Grady’s progress, which would be anecdotal, but would still expand her data.
Of course if Bryce had filled out his forms, she’d be able to do a lot more. Rather than fume, she opted for a second glass of wine and a romantic comedy.
Friday evening, Cecily stood in her closet, still not sure what she should wear. She’d never seen Bryce in anything but jeans and either tees or western work shirts. At the Lucky Duck, typical attire ranged from straight off the ranch, to coats and ties for the men, with woman running the same gamut. She decided to go with a brown-and-rust plaid skirt, a cream-colored scoop-neck sweater, and her new strappy sandals. So what if it wasn’t sandal weather anymore. She hadn’t spent the afternoon getting all twenty of her nails done to hide ten of them under boots, dressy or otherwise. Sarah had insisted on fuck me red for the toes, but Cecily had gone with a subdued-but-glittery peach for her fingers.
She took in the overall effect in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Hair—loose curls, no ponytail. Makeup—same as always, but with a tad more blush, a touch more eye liner and shimmery eye shadow, and a slightly darker shade of lip gloss. The sweater—too low cut? Too revealing with the new bra? What kind of a message was she trying to send? She dug through a drawer, found an ivory lace scarf, and looped it around her neck. Let Bryce wonder if she’d take it off later.
Skirt—enough flare to walk without having to take mincing-fairy steps. The three-inch heels, with her red toenails sticking out. Getting into Bryce’s pickup might be a challenge, but she’d manage. Or should they take her car? And if they did, who would drive?
Enough already. Wait for the bridges before you cross them.
Perfume. She went into the bathroom. The usual, or the expensive, exotic fragrance Sabrina had given her for her birthday? She thought about Bryce, about his familiar scent. Tonight, she didn’t want to veer too far away from being familiar to him as well, so she went with her everyday perfume. An extra spritz for good luck, and she was ready.
Now, all she had to do was wait. Waiting sucked.
Bryce did a last minute check before ringing Cecily’s doorbell. He’d ironed his black denims, polished his black boots, and added a bolo tie with an onyx slide to his black-and-white checked western shirt. He’d gone full out and used all black elastics on his hair. He adjusted his black leather blazer and pressed the bell.
The footfalls clicking across the hall weren’t boots. Cecily always wore boots. He envisioned her wearing heels, which did nothing to get rid of his semi-aroused state. Should he have brought flowers? The door opened, and her scent drifted over him.
She stood there, not moving. Not speaking. What had he screwed up now? He wasn’t late. It had taken all his willpower not to show up an hour early.
Her gaze moved from his head—wearing his black Stetson, not his everyday beige—down to his boots, then up to his eyes. “You look good,” she said, smiling.
He couldn’t help the grin. “You do, too.”
“Want to come in for a second? We have plenty of time.”
If he went in and sat down, they’d never get to dinner. He swallowed. Twice. “Traffic can be heavy on a Friday night.”
“You’re right. I’ll get my things.”
His brain went blank. Things? What things? He crossed the threshold into the entry, watching her hips sway in that skirt. They swayed when she wore jeans, but this was different. And she had legs. He’d never seen her calves before, not bare, anyway. Well-shaped. Nice muscle definition. She came back with a small purse and a brown leather coat draped over her forearm. Right. Things.
Which reminded him. He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and retrieved the envelope. “Here.”
Her brows lifted. Her eyes were the same, but different. They seemed bigger. Sparklier.
“What’s this?” She, in typical Cecily fashion, was already opening it, so he figured he didn’t need to answer.
Her eyes lit up, and she leaned into him and kissed his cheek. “You did the reports. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “All caught up now.” What would she have done if he had brought flowers?
“I know you hate to do these, and I wish there were some other way, but—”
She stopped mid-sentence. He waited.
With an apologetic smile, she went on. “I promised myself we wouldn’t discuss my program tonight. But, can I ask how Ginger’s doing after yesterday’s scare? She’s not an official part of the program.”
“Over dinner?”
“Right. Let’s go.”
He followed her outside and waited while she locked her front door. They got to the street, and she looked around. “Where’s your pickup?”
He set his hand at the small of her back—damn, the connection sent a shock of desire through him—and guided her a couple slots down the street. “Thought a classier ride was in order.” He unlocked the passenger door on the Gran Torino and held it open for her.
“This ... this is yours?” she asked, her mouth all but hanging open.
“Is now,” he said. “Was my grandpa’s. On my mother’s side,” he added, not that Cecily needed to know his own father would’ve never let Bryce have the classic car, and what it had taken to make sure he couldn’t get his hands on it. “It’s a 1976. Last year they made ’em.”
Cecily ran her hands over the leather seats. “You restored it?”
He nodded, then went around to the driver’s side. “Rebuilt, restored, renewed. Re-everythinged. I thought about adding the Starsky and Hutch stripe, but that would have been over the top.”
“You are full of surprises, Bryce Barrett.”
He slid the key into the ignition. “Good ones, I hope.”
She slid closer, and he was glad he’d kept the bench seat. She rested her hand on his thigh. “So far, absolutely.”
Was he supposed to answer? What were they going to talk about? He’d already decided he’d let her go on about her project, that he’d agree with everything she said. If she’d put Helping Through Horses off limits, it could be a long, awkward evening. Lately, Cecily was her project. Everything else got squeezed into the cracks.
At least it would be a long, awkward evening with Cecily, whose proximity was proving to be a delightful distraction. He concentrated on the road, willing her hand to stay where it was. He loved the warmth her touch sent through his denims, but if she moved it even half an inch to the left, she’d be all too aware of how much he enjoyed it.
His mind insisted on taking its own path, which was a massive shortcut, bypassing dinner and getting straight to the after party. Assuming there would be one. They still had an hour or two for the evening to go south.
In case it didn’t, he had a condom in his wallet. Two more in his blazer pocket. He shifted a little, trying to get things where they belonged. The silk boxers he’d put on—a gag gift from one of his Ranger buddies, but he was glad he’d saved them—felt sleek and smooth, which added another layer to his arousal as he imagined Cecily’s fingers touching him.
Somehow, he managed to keep the car on the road and pull into a parking slot in front of the Lucky Duck.
The host seated them near the fireplace, and Bryce asked for the wine list. He’d already spent time on the restaurant’s website and researched a couple of choices.
“Wine with dinner?” he asked Cecily.
Once she said yes, he followed with, “Red or white? Or do you want to wait to see what you’re going to have for dinner?”
Was he surprising her? Her twitching lips and rising eyebrows said yes, but in a good way. It wasn’t like he didn’t know about wine, and he’d travelled enough in his Ranger days to have sampled an assortment of exotic cuisines—not counting the creatures they had to catch to survive while on some of their ops—to know his way around a menu.
Cecily glanced downward and grinned. “I generally choose my wines based on what I’m wearing rather than what I’m eating. I don’t want to spill any red on this sweater. So, white would be fine with me.”
Bryce couldn’t help but laugh at Cecily’s unique approach to wine pairings. “White it is.” He gave his selection to the server, who promised to return shortly. How long was shortly, anyway?
He set the wine list aside and focused his gaze on Cecily. “Before we go any further, tonight’s on me.”
He braced himself for a retort, but she settled her napkin in her lap and said, “Thank you. Now, I want to hear how you caught the cattle killer. From you, not a police report, or my brother who thinks I don’t need to know what’s going on at the ranch.”
“Not much to tell,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t give me that.”
He shrugged and summarized the events, pausing for the wine tasting ritual when the server brought the Chardonnay he’d ordered.
Cecily raised her glass. “To catching bad guys.”
“To saving good guys,” he added.
After the toast, at Cecily’s urging, he went on with his recap.
“Wait,” she said. “You disarmed him?”
“No big deal.”
“But you said he had a knife. Did you get cut?”
“I need a new shirt is all.” He grinned. “Unless you want to sew up the tear for me.”
“Don’t push it,” she said, but her smile said she wasn’t angry. “First you don’t tell me you caught the killer, then you don’t tell me you could have been killed, and you want me to mend your shirt? I don’t think so.”
They enjoyed their meals, over surprisingly comfortable conversation. Cecily chatted about some of the colorful calls she’d dealt with on the job. Although he could have listened to her all night, she had a knack for turning the conversation around, reminiscing about some of the times they’d worked side-by-side at the Triple-D, and asking him to relate a few stories of his own. Everything stayed on the light side—no prying into his childhood, no war horror stories, and nothing about the sister Bryce knew Cecily had lost.
They lingered over dessert and coffee—the wine bottle long since emptied—and Bryce took care of the check while Cecily excused herself to use the ladies room. Bryce took a turn as well, and then they were on the road. To her house. Where he’d be faced with the awkward goodnight crap. He’d played out all the scenarios, but soon, he’d find out which one hit center stage.