Chapter Seven

Reed nearly sat on his hands to keep from bolting off the couch. What was up with him and his big mouth?

Normally, things in his life were, if not easy, then straightforward. He planned a course of action. Followed through as best he could. His feelings weren’t a factor. He simply did what had to be done.

That was how he handled cases at work. How he kept going after his breakup. How he’d learned to step up after his father never came home.

Only now, he kept doing everything he wasn’t supposed to. Walking in on Talia. Inviting her home with him. Finding reasons she needed to stay.

And now, inviting her to dinner. Saying he’d cook for her. Doing anything to make her smile.

It was such a stupid idea, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. “Beer, or wine?” he asked, hoping the question would buy him time to screw his head on and figure out what the hell to do next.

Talia looked at him like she still didn’t believe he’d said, “I’ll make you dinner” and not, “You have three minutes to grab your stuff and get lost.”

“Beer, or wine?” he repeated, hoping he sounded steady. In control. All the things he didn’t feel inside. “It’s happy hour. Let’s get this non-date started.”

“Wine, I guess,” she decided. “Please.”

She moved to get up, but he motioned for her to stay. “Hang tight, I’ll grab it.”

She looked skeptical. But she held up her hands in surrender and let him get to it.

There was the wine, yeah. But also, he had things to do. Like sneak into the bedroom and change.

Where were his better jeans that weren’t frayed? And a button-down shirt. Black. Not totally wrinkled. Just kind of.

He put the clothes on, rolling up his sleeves so the shirt looked intentionally relaxed and not like it had been shoved in the back of the closet for months, because since when did he go on dates anymore?

Or non-dates. He had to remember his promise that this wasn’t a date. It was just a night not to wear his rattiest jeans, because he wasn’t a dick.

He flexed his forearms, glancing at the tattoos. There was no reason to make a big deal out of this. It was like he’d said. Like they’d both said. They needed to eat dinner at some point. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting her cook.

A smart move, he decided. Not as completely boneheaded as he’d first thought.

But he stopped in front of the mirror and ran a hand over his jaw, hoping he didn’t need a trim, wondering if there was any chance Talia had a thing for shaved heads.

Then reminding himself that it didn’t matter what she wanted, since no matter what, it wasn’t going to be him.

In the living room, he opened a bottle of red and poured two glasses. He brought hers over, then turned on the speaker by the TV and scrolled through his phone. How was the only playlist he had that was good for something like this literally called Date Night?

He should rename it Wine on the Couch Night. It’d be more versatile that way.

As it was, he was surprised that playlist still existed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d played it—even when he’d had a girlfriend to go on dates with. It wasn’t the sort of thing he did. He had work, he was busy, he wasn’t a sap.

The music started, low and soulful. Talia looked up, her expression somewhere between startled and amused with a healthy dollop of you’re crazy on top. She eyed the wine without drinking it.

“It’s not poisoned,” he said, coming to sit next to her on the couch.

On second thought, maybe he’d taken that next to her thing too literally. He slid farther away.

“I thought you said no date,” she said, holding the glass like it was a bomb with wires sticking out of it and a countdown clock that all pointed to very bad news.

“Wine doesn’t make a date.”

“There’s music playing.”

“Beats silence.”

“And you changed.”

“Pants don’t make a date, either.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re right, I guess that would be setting the bar too low, even for me.”

“You should have standards for guys you go out with. Pants are a good start. Then you can move on to judging their music selection.”

She laughed. Good. He couldn’t stand the thought of her looking as miserable as when that loser bailed on her without so much as a phone call. He didn’t know who the guy was, or what the hell was wrong with him, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Talia feel like shit about it.

The feeling surprised him. He hadn’t felt this protective about anyone since Lisa. But it was more than that. Talia hadn’t shrugged and said, “Who cares?” or steeled herself to feel nothing at all. As strong as she was, she still had feelings. Feelings she was okay sharing with him.

It made him want to put his arm around her, refill her glass, and make sure she never turned as hard and jaded as him.

“I don’t actually know what food I have to offer,” he admitted, trying to get a grip on his spiraling thoughts. “I should have thought of that before I got all gallant on you.”

She smiled. “Anything is fine. As long as it doesn’t come with a side of cancellation.”

“I’ve got salmon in the freezer. I know, frozen fish isn’t exactly the best. But single guy, not around that much—”

“Salmon is great,” she said. “Can I help?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Not a chance.”

“I can’t even peel a potato?”

“I don’t trust you,” he said. “Let’s make rice. Green beans?”

“I can wash them.”

“Nah. This one’s on me. You just stand there and—”

“Try not to light anything on fire?”

What he’d really been thinking was You just stand there so I can admire you. But he didn’t think she’d get that he was kidding.

Sort of.

A little bit kidding, a lot of just wanting her to be near him.

Christ, he was losing his mind.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”

He cooked while she talked and made sure their glasses stayed full—a division of labor he was more than okay with. She told him about her brother, Shawn, who lived in Brooklyn and was dating her best friend, Jessie. About dancing, a summer spent in London performing until she’d injured her knee. The months of rehab she’d recovered from, then the audition where she’d landed the role as an understudy to Stacey.

“So that means what?” he asked. “If I hadn’t lost her, you wouldn’t be in the show?”

“Something like that.” She leaned against the counter while he slid the fish into the oven.

“Then there’s a silver lining to this whole disaster,” he said, trying to look at the food, the kitchen, and not at the curve of her red-clad hips.

She made a face. “I don’t know.” Her sigh was long and deep.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I keep thinking… What if I’m better off as the understudy? What if I’m not cut out for this?”

This time, he turned his full attention to her. “I’ve known you less than two weeks, and I already don’t believe that.”

“Tell that to the choreographer. All he does is yell at me. Step there! No, not there! THERE! Now jump! Higher!” She imitated a sharp, nasally voice, accentuating each command with a clap. Reed both laughed and shuddered.

He could picture Talia on stage with her acting skills, her energy. No matter what she said, he could absolutely picture her as the star.

“He must think you can do it if he gave you the role,” he said.

“I guess. But I bombed the audition for the show last year—an audition I know he and I both thought I’d do better at. I can tell he hasn’t forgotten.”

Talia choking under pressure? Now that was unexpected.

“What, did you fall off the stage?” he asked.

She laughed. “No, that came later.”

He put the spatula down. “I was kidding.”

She curtseyed. Which didn’t look like the easiest thing to do in that clinging red dress, but she pulled it off anyway. Seeing her with her hair perfectly done and draping over her shoulder, her eyes glittery with the wine, her curves in that dress—

Don’t burn the fucking salmon, dude. Although he knew she caught the quirk of his lips into a smile before he turned away.

Talia put down her glass. “There was this guy.”

He turned back, eyebrow raised. Go on.

“I’m the first to admit it was stupid. But he’d gotten some bad news—professionally. Not a medical disaster or anything. Not even that bad, but at the time he was devastated. So I blew off other stuff I should have been doing to prepare for the audition, I barely got any sleep, and I just…” She shrugged ruefully. “I knew the steps. But knowing the steps isn’t enough, you know? I knew even then that something was missing. I’ve been trying to get it back ever since.”

“Hang on.” He waved the spatula at her. “Did you bomb it, or did you just not nail it?”

“There’s a difference?”

“One sucks a lot worse than the other.”

Talia shrugged. “They both end with me as the understudy. But it was the right casting call, Reed. Stacey was gorgeous in this role. I’m playing catch-up, and how do I know I’m not going to have the same problem again? Not because of a guy,” she added quickly. “But the other stuff.”

Reed let his head rock from side to side, thinking through all this new information. “What happened to him?”

“Do you see a boyfriend stepping in to give me a place to stay when my apartment turns out to be the target of some freaky drug gang who’s bad enough to make Stacey give up everything she had?”

“Point taken.”

“We broke up a week after the audition of doom.”

“Ouch.” He winced.

“Yeah, ouch.”

There was a pause.

“How long had you two been dating?” he asked. “The end of a long relationship can really mess with your head.” He knew more than he wanted to about that.

She mumbled something into her glass.

“I didn’t catch that,” he said.

“I said, three weeks.”

Talia managed to knock back what looked like about four gulps of wine in one swallow.

Rice. He definitely needed to check the rice. He had plenty of practice keeping a poker face, but he didn’t think he could look at her right now. He’d break it.

“I know,” Talia said. “It’s—”

“None of my business,” he said evenly.

“Stupid,” she said over him. “It was stupid. He brought me flowers weeks later, but I hate getting flowers.”

“And you think I’m the asshole? Who the hell hates getting flowers?”

She bit her bottom lip, which temporarily shut his brain off for a moment. “I get them all the time. Which sounds so snooty, but it starts to feel like a default thing. Anyone who knows me would know that after a big performance, my dream is for someone to bring me a slice of chocolate cake. I don’t have to find a vase for cake, or try to keep it alive for more than an hour. And it’s not the kind of thing I can have whenever I want when I’m rehearsing, so I really, really miss it.”

He laughed. “I’ll remember that for your show.” He turned the heat off under the rice, fluffed it, and let it sit. “Anyway, we all do stupid stuff like that sometimes,” he added quickly, to cover for the fact that he’d just basically offered to bring her flowers. Or cake. Or whatever.

“Then tell me your story about being a dumbass for what turned out to definitely not be love,” she said.

Great, he’d walked into that one. Now he needed to walk the fuck back.

“I’m never a dumbass,” he said. “And I never give anyone flowers.”

Talia laughed in his face. Then her expression softened. “You know,” she said thoughtfully. “I actually believe that. Both those things,” she added, in case he’d missed her point.

Naturally, he was lying through his teeth. He’d done plenty of stupid things in his day. He wasn’t sure whether watching helplessly as Lisa walked out on him was the big one. Or whether the truly stupid move came from letting her stay with him for so long when he knew she expected him to move up enough to take a desk job, management, something with more prestige, better pay. And none of the risk.

He just hadn’t known it was coming so soon. Or that when push came to shove, he’d be able to look into her tear-stained eyes and not choose her.

“I’m no chef, but are you sure you want the green beans to look like that?”

Reed snapped back to attention. It had to be bad if even Talia noticed he was threatening to overcook them. He turned off the heat, drained them, shocked them in ice water, and put them back in the pan. Olive oil, lemon, salt, pepper—he looked at Talia and decided from her look that she approved of his efforts to, if not wow her, then at least present something other than the NYC special: mediocre delivery.

“Don’t think you can weasel out of answering my question just because you haven’t set off the smoke alarm yet,” she said.

“Yet?” He stopped squeezing a lemon and dared her to continue.

“I haven’t been here that long. Anything is possible.”

“It hasn’t been that long? Funny, it feels like forever.” But he grinned when he said it, and she stuck her tongue out between those lush red lips and wrinkled her nose at him.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “The man of stone can actually smile.”

He rolled his eyes. “The fish is done. Let’s eat.”

She set the table and he brought over the food. But something was missing. Did they need more wine? Different music?

He went to a drawer in the kitchen. Did he have—yup. He couldn’t believe he owned candlesticks, let alone a box of candles. But there was all sorts of shit stuffed into drawers that he never bothered to use. No time like the present, right?

It was just so they didn’t have to stare at their food in the harsh overhead lighting while he failed to come up with anything else to talk about. It wasn’t a thing.

He turned off the lights in the apartment and lit the candles at the table. “There,” he said as he shook out the match. “Now we’re ready.”

“Eric just got seriously beat,” she said.

“Who?”

“The guy from Tinder.”

“Oh. That guy.” He made a face. “Tell me this isn’t way better than a date.”

“And I don’t have to wear shoes.” Talia extended her legs as she took a seat. Reed almost dropped the serving spoon on the floor. Now that was unnecessary. He didn’t need to see those endless inches of her bare skin disappearing under the slinky red dress that had hitched up as she sat down. She might have been trying to cover up her toes in the heels she’d been wearing. But her bandages only reminded him of the things her body could do.

He focused on serving the food and not falling over. The view from across the table wasn’t much safer. There was still the cling of the fabric to her breasts, the straps over her shoulders, her bare arms.

And the problem of the candlelight. It was better than having to look at his apartment, which he only didn’t call a shithole because he’d been to Stacey’s place, and that was a shithole.

But that didn’t take into account what it was like to sit across from her and watch the candlelight flicker over her face, lighting up her eyes, turning the waves she’d put into her hair into something softer, fuller, more touchable than he could have imagined.

“How’s the case going?”

Talia’s question jolted him back to the present. Here he was in fantasy land wondering how it would feel to find out for certain if she was wearing a bra under that dress. Meanwhile, she was going straight for the jugular, because of course the candles weren’t turning her into a tongue-tied, incoherent mess.

He debated for a minute, then answered honestly. “Shitty,” he said, spearing a piece of fish.

“Because?” she asked.

Where to begin?

“We have no leads, we have no informant. We can get to people, but only in West’s outer circle. We don’t have a way to penetrate the inner group and touch West himself. Stacey was the one who knew him, because she’d bought directly from him in the past. We’re in the dark about what West knows about Stacey or the case we’re building.”

“So Jonnie still keeps his hands clean,” Talia said, picking up everything he wasn’t saying. “And you? What happens to you if you can’t take him down directly?”

“Lock up the little guys, watch them get back on the streets within a year, sit back while the whole cycle continues and I stay an agent for the rest of my life.”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that last part, or at least not so bluntly. He blamed the wine, the music. He blamed the way Talia talked and talked, making him think it was okay to do the same.

“An agent as opposed to…?” she prodded.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.”

“I don’t believe you for a second.”

The look she gave him made his head swim. There were so many ways she barely knew him. And so many ways she already did.

“A lieutenant,” he admitted. “Which is what my dad was. I’ve always imagined following in his footsteps, you know? He died in the line of duty—” Talia opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to stop whatever sympathies she was about to say. “It was a long time ago. My point is, I want to do it for him. But if all I can catch is the smallest bait, and nothing changes, then how am I supposed to do even that?”

Talia was quiet. He hadn’t known she could be quiet. Then she said, “Your dad would be proud of what you’re doing. I don’t have to have known him to know that.”

Reed reached for his wineglass. It was empty, but he had to give his hands something to do, his eyes somewhere to look besides at her.

He fiddled with the wine stem between his forefinger and thumb. The next thing he knew, her hand was on his, quieting the movement.

Not that she was still. Her foot tapped under the table, and her thumb stroked his knuckles in time with the music. He didn’t know what to do. Whether to kiss her, or run.

And then, somehow, he knew. He didn’t have to say, “Dance with me.” He took her hand and lifted it, and she rose from her seat and followed.

The music was slow and as smooth as her skin. He held one of her hands in his and let his other hand slide around her waist as she rested her palm on his shoulder. Not too close. There was still space between them.

But close enough.

Enough to know how beautifully she moved with every step.

She swayed where he led, fitting her body against his. Her in her dress and bare feet, him in his jeans. He could smell the lavender in her hair, the peach of her skin. It was heady. Intoxicating.

Her hair brushed his cheek. Her breasts grazed his chest. His hand hovered between holding her and giving her room. Between resting on her back and resting…lower.

He could feel the line where her ass began to curve beneath his fingers, but he couldn’t cross it. This was enough. It had to be enough. He had to be content with dancing, just dancing, and keeping those inches between them.

The next thing he knew, she was closer. Her breasts weren’t just grazing his chest but pressing against him. He could feel the shape of them, the touch of her nipples, the thinness of the dress between them. Her body was as taut as a string pulled tight. He wanted to run his hands over every inch and make it hum.

“Reed?” she murmured into his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“We’re still not on a date…are we?”

“Absolutely not.”

He felt her shuffle closer. Or maybe that was him stepping in, drawing her to him, sliding his hand dangerously down.

“Okay,” she said. “Just checking.”

“What would make it a date?” he asked.

“With my track record, you’d have to insult my career, assert your superior taste in wine, and stick me with the tab.”

“No offense, but you have terrible taste in men.”

She tilted her head up and laughed. The sound alone shouldn’t have made him so hard against her. It was just a noise, it was just his ear. But it was impossible to keep her from knowing what she did to him.

“I clearly have a type,” she said. “And my type sucks.”

“Then it’s not a date if I do this.” Reed took the hand that had been holding hers and used it to brush her hair over her shoulder.

She shook her head ever so slightly. “No.”

“Or if I do this.” He used his finger to raise her chin.

Her eyes looked up at him, full and liquid in the whispering light. Again, that small flick of her head: no.

“And it’s definitely not a date if I do this.”

He kissed her.

He knew it was a bad idea as he was doing it. He didn’t have room in his life for a woman. An agent with his kind of job and his kind of hours had to be alone. He’d learned that the hard way, and he wasn’t going to put another woman through that again.

But then she kissed him back, her mouth soft and warm and inviting him in.

And instead of pulling away like he should have, blaming the wine, stammering his excuses, his hands were in her hair, sliding down her back, and he knew he was going to devour her whole.