“Hey, gorgeous.” I bend over her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Are you tired?”
With a yawn, she answers, “Long day.”
“Let’s get you to bed.”
She shakes her head. “Not yet.”
“Why not, sleepyhead?”
“I need something first.”
My heart lurches with hope. “What’s that?”
She reaches up for me. “You.”
And I’m ready to go. Damn, my dick likes her all sleepy and sweet.
And my heart does too. That dumbass organ leaps out of my chest and lands next to her, curling up, finding its home.
Fucking hearts. Fucking dicks.
I can’t resist her with either one.
I join her on the couch, grabbing her jaw, and pressing a soft kiss to her lips that turns hungry, greedy. She yanks me closer, stripping off my shirt, unzipping my jeans.
Her clothes come off too, and in seconds, she’s spread her legs, inviting me home.
I grab a condom, cover myself, then slide inside, gasping at the indescribable pleasure of the warm, welcome feel of her.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around my neck.
I groan as I rock into her, moving slowly, taking my time. I go deeper, and with each lingering thrust, she moans and whimpers, sounds that pull me further into her orbit. That tug on my heart. Every noise of pleasure makes me want to get closer to her in every way.
She lifts up her knees, moving her legs higher, letting me go deeper into her. So deep, so far, so intense.
“God, it’s so good with you,” she murmurs against my neck.
“So fucking good.”
She nibbles on my ear, her breath sweet against my skin. “It’s never felt like this.”
I shudder. “I know. Not with anyone.”
And it hasn’t. I’ve never felt this way, this wild, intense connection. As I move in her, bringing her closer, looking into her eyes, that connection crackles like electricity. I know she has to feel it too.
The way she stares at me with such trust, with something that damn near feels like love, almost makes me say something.
I bite my tongue.
“You’re so quiet tonight,” she whispers as I swivel my hips and rock into her.
“I just like looking at you.”
“I like it too.”
I stare into her eyes, overcome, overwhelmed, until the physical becomes too intense and pulls me under its crashing, pulsing wave.
We reach the finish together.
And all I know is that I don’t want this to end. Because I’m in love with her, even though it’s scary as hell. Even though I don’t want to get hurt. Even though I didn’t come looking for this.
The worst part is I don’t think anything will come of all these emotions swelling inside me, because in love is where she doesn’t want me to be.
30
Perri
As my Thursday shift draws to a close, I head to the break room, log in to the online entry for the kissing contest, and tap the button for our category.
As I snag a Diet Coke from the vending machine, I hit submit on my phone. Jansen strolls past, heading to the coffeepot. “Most passionate?”
Damn, he has eagle eyes. Good thing I wasn’t looking at anything private. It’s an even better thing I placed my lingerie order at home last night.
I tuck my phone into my back pocket and grab the can, cracking it open, acting as nonchalant as I can be. “That’s the plan.”
I hope my response comes out casual, but I can hear the hint of embarrassment in my voice. I don’t want to discuss kissing with my boss. More specifically, I don’t want to discuss passionate kissing with the man who signs my paychecks. Talking about entering the contest when it was a mere idea was one thing. Now it’s a reality, and it feels weird.
I shrug and take a sip. “Seemed like an easy one.”
“Is it?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Seems like it’d require a lot of practice.”
A blush creeps across my cheeks. I swallow roughly as I try to fashion an answer. Am I supposed to say, Hey, don’t worry, I’ve been spending my nights practicing? Or wait till you see how jiggy we can get? Did I cross some strange line by entering the contest at all, or by entering in that category?
“Should I switch to something else? Maybe sweet?”
“Hell no. Theresa and I don’t need that kind of competition. I’m just impressed you entered in most passionate.”
“I could change to another category?” I offer, but the question, and asking it again, comes across as meek. I want to kick myself for asking it. I sound wishy-washy. I don’t sound like someone who’s tough on criminals.
He smiles, the teddy-bear grin that he’s known for. “Just giving you a hard time, Keating. You know I think it’s great that you’re doing this.” He grabs his cup of coffee and leaves.
I down a thirsty gulp of Diet Coke, wishing it would calm my nerves.
It doesn’t, and I’m honestly not sure why I feel any nerves. Except I can’t help but worry that I’ve overstepped somewhere, somehow.
I return to my patrol, walking the streets in the town square. When my shift ends, I bump into Elias on the steps leading out of the station.
And he’s not bopping this time. He’s grinning, and his smile reaches the stars.
“My, my, someone is happy,” I say, grateful for a distraction.
Elias’s eyes dance with delight. “Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Did you win the lottery?”
“Feels like it.” He punches the sky. “I got it.”
I tilt my head, inquiring, “What did you get?”
“Chief just told me I’m going to be a sergeant. I landed a promotion.” He taps his chest. “Me! Holy shit! Me! I can’t wait to tell the missus. She’s going to be so proud of me.”
I blink, shock slamming into me, making it hard to breathe. He can’t be saying what he’s saying. Please don’t let him be saying that. “You did?”
Shaking his hips, he dives into a whole new kind of dance. A victory jig. “And I didn’t even need a viral video to do it. Chief just said he was proud of my track record and I’d earned the job. No need for theatrics. Just good, honest work.”
I draw a harsh breath and will myself to show nothing. Display nothing. “That’s the way to do it,” I say robotically. But underneath, a knife of self-doubt slices away at my heart. Did I take on too much with the extra reports? Did I botch the jewelry store case? Was traffic duty a mess? A new issue lodges in my mind—was it a mistake to enter the contest?
But I can’t wallow in my worry. I have to care. Elias is my friend, and he wants this. He’s earned it. I should be thrilled for him. I slap on a smile. “I’m so happy for you. You deserve it.”
I give him a quick hug.
“Aww, thanks, Keating. What about you?”
“What about me?” I ask, dropping into my cool-as-a-leather-jacket mode.
“Were you going for it?” he asks, sounding worried on my behalf. I can’t take a chance that his concern will morph into pity for me.
I wave a hand, admitting nothing. “Please. It went to the best man. I’ll see you later.”
Quickly, I race to my car, yank open the door, and slide inside. I jerk on the seat belt, my throat jamming with stupid emotion.
I swipe at my cheeks, erasing any evidence of sadness as I turn on the engine and pull away. I gulp back the idiotic tears as I drive. But they won’t listen to me. They keep threatening to spill free. I turn the corner and pull over at the sidewalk. I do something I can only do when I’m finished at work.
I cry.
And I hate myself for it.
I should be happy for Elias and his family, but I’m selfishly sad for myself.
I shouldn’t care this much.
But I feel like I failed.
Like maybe I didn’t deserve it in the first place.
Maybe I was focused on the wrong things.
/>
I blink back my tears and stare at the dashboard.
I should go find my girls, drown my sorrows in a glass of wine the size of my head, throw darts at a board, and then drink some more.
But I don’t call them because for the first time in forever, they aren’t the ones I want to turn to.
Derek is.
I want to find him, tell him, ask him to wrap his strong arms around me. Feel him smooth my hair, kiss my forehead, and say, Don’t worry, kitten, you’ll get the next one.
I want him to kiss away my sadness, to hold me close, to let me know he’s there for me even if the job isn’t.
Gulping, I look in the rearview mirror at the sad, unexpected truth reflected in my eyes. I want all that because I’ve fallen in love with my housemate.
I’m head over heels for the man.
But what if he’s the reason I didn’t get the gig? What if love made me lose my edge?
What if I took my eyes off the prize?
The questions stab at my brain as I head back on the road and drive home. By the time I reach my house, I’ve arrived at several new conclusions.
Falling in love distracted me.
And falling in love was indescribably dumb.
Derek made it crystal clear from the start that he’s not interested in a relationship.
That’s why there’s only one thing to do.
31
Derek
I don’t always remove marbles from noses, but when I do, I’m awesome at it. “Stay still. I’ve got it.”
Thanks to forceps fixed firmly in place, the small blue marble slips out easily from the tyke’s nose and into my waiting palm.
“Oh, thank God,” the mother says, relief flowing off her in waves. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She turns to the three-year-old with the predilection for testing his nasal cavity. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, Oliver.” She grabs her son and tugs him in for a crushing hug, the kind that won’t end for days.
“I won’t, Mommy.”
“He’s going to be just fine,” I tell the worried woman, who called mere minutes ago.
“You’re a godsend. How can I thank you?”
“No need to thank us. It’s our job, and we’re happy to do it.”
She extends a hand. “I’m Claire. I work in events at the Windemere Inn. If I can ever do anything, let me know.”
Something about the name of her workplace tugs at my memory, but I can’t quite place it.
“Derek,” I say, then introduce Hunter. “And don’t worry. We are all good.”
Hunter offers her the marble. “Want to keep it as a memento?”
Claire laughs as she hugs her son closer. “No, I want him to never play with marbles again.”
“I won’t play with them, Mommy.”
“Take care, and hopefully you won’t need us again, but you know where to find us if you do,” I say.
We head down the stairs of the apartment building. “If only all our calls were that easy.”
Hunter drums his fingers against the banister. “But I’ll take easy when it comes our way. And it’s been an easy day.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Today is just one of those fantastically good days.”
As we reach the van, he shoots me a curious stare. “I’m not sure I’m buying that marbles are the reason for your happy mood.”
I yank open the door. “Why not?”
He scratches his jaw. “Call me Sherlock, but I think you might be one happy camper thanks to a certain lady cop.”
I smile as I get into the passenger side.
Once he’s in the driver’s seat, he turns to me, pressing the issue. “You two were putting on quite a show at bowling the other night.”
“Glad you enjoyed our special performance. Be sure to tune in again every night.”
“Every night, is it?”
“Hey, you want lunch?”
“Dude, it’s ten in the morning. Even I’m not hungry just yet. Don’t change the subject. Are you guys a thing now?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
He turns on the engine and pulls away. “You might be slow on the uptake, then. If I were you, I’d get on that right away. I’ve known Perri Keating for years. I can’t tell you the last time she dated anyone.”
That intrigues me to no end. “That so?”
“She’s pretty much a solo rider. But man, she’s a catch. That’s why if she were into me, I’d make damn sure no one else had a chance.”
The mere prospect that any other man might look at her with desire makes me snarl. “No one does have a chance.”
“Oh, it’s serious, then?”
“No,” I grumble.
“Then make it serious, dickhead. She’s a special lady.”
* * *
Trouble is, I don’t know how to make it serious. All I know is we can’t exist in this in-between state forever. The kissing contest is this weekend, and we made a deal. We set a deadline.
Sure, I could tell her I’ve revised my stance. I could let on that I’m ready for her to be mine and only mine.
But if I’m going to do what Hunter said—make sure no one else has a chance—I need to figure out when and how to make my case.
Relationships aren’t my strong suit. I’m more than rusty, and even though flirty banter and dirty phrases fall easily from my lips, words vex me when it comes to what to say to a woman who’s declared relationships off-limits.
When I return home that night, open the back door, and turn into the kitchen, I find a note on the blackboard.
For the baby.
Next to the blackboard is a gift, wrapped in pink paper with a bow. This woman. My God.
How can I convince her to be mine when she doesn’t want to be?
I don’t fucking know.
But I have to figure it out.
My ears zoom in on the sound of water running. She must be taking a shower. As I regard the empty kitchen, I figure food is always a good start with Perri.
Peering into the fridge, I spot broccoli and mushrooms. I start chopping so I can sauté the veggies for her, along with some jasmine rice.
As I’m cooking, the shower stream cuts off, and I hear the telltale signs of her moving around her bedroom. A few minutes later, she emerges, entering the kitchen wearing her witch jammies and a black tank top.
My heart stutters.
Holy hell. She’s so damn beautiful and . . . sad? Her eyes are rimmed with red, like she’s been crying. What the hell?
“Hey, kitten. What happened?”
Her mouth is a straight line, but then her lower lip quivers. “I didn’t get the promotion,” she whispers quietly.
“Shit, babe, I’m sorry.” I turn off the burner, setting down the spatula.
I reach to hug her, but she winces and holds out a hand. Stops me. Whispers one, two, three, then jerks up her gaze. “How long are we going to do this?” Her tone shifts instantly from sad to tough as nails.
“Do what?”
She flaps her hands wildly. “Play house? Cook and screw and pretend we’re a couple?”
For a long time, I want to reply, but tears spill from her eyes, and I’m thoroughly confused. I don’t know what to say or how to say it or if now is the time.
“I like cooking for you.” As soon as that comes out, I’m positive it isn’t what she needs to hear. But I’m also certain I’ve no clue what to say to fix a damn thing. I try again. “How long do you want to do this?”
She swipes a hand across her cheek then takes a deep breath. “We agreed to do this till the contest. Get it out of our systems. But we’re acting like a couple.”
Wait. I’m wrong. This is the time. This is my entrée to wedge my way into her heart. “We are. That’s true.”
That’s a start, right?
She frowns. “But we’re not. You know that?”
“I do know that,” I say tentatively, trying to figure out how to keep moving the conversation forward.
> She points at me. “You made it clear from the start. You said no relationships. You said you didn’t want anything. And now we’re living together, and we can’t just keep going on indefinitely. You’re my roommate, I’m your landlord, and the more we keep doing this, the stupider we get.”
I blink, trying to process why we’re dumb.
She sucks in a breath, and her voice catches again as it rises. “And it’s distracting. It’s totally distracting.”
“It is?”
She flings up her hands, her eyes shining with tears. “Obviously it’s distracting. I didn’t get the job, and that means I’m not focusing on work enough. All I think about is you. Seeing you and being with you and kissing you and talking to you.” She snaps her gaze away, covering her face with her hands. “And it’s stupid. It’s so stupid because we made a deal.”
Carefully, I step forward, peeling her fingers from her face. “You think you lost your focus?”
She swallows roughly, nodding. “I’ve been laser-focused on this forever, but then you showed up and look what happened. I missed the biggest chance of my career.”
I hardly know what to say.
I barely know what she needs.
I don’t know how to make this right.
But if she were an emergency call, I’d have to figure it out.
Once I apply my work problem-solving skills, the answer flashes before me.
Brilliantly and awfully.
She needs an out. She needs an end.
I have to give it to her, as much as it hurts.
I’m not simply ripping off the Band-Aid. I’m tearing away a piece of my heart that she inextricably owns.
But that’s the only way to fix her emergency. I look her in the eyes, staying strong, treating her like a patient who needs help, who needs a calm and competent guiding hand. “Maybe we should cool things off. What if we go back to being housemates? Like we agreed. Does that sound good to you?”
She closes her eyes like everything hurts.
And everything does hurt.
Every damn piece of my heart and soul screams at me. But I have to give her—and us—the treatment we need. “We can also call off the contest if you think that’s best.”
The Feel Good Factor Page 17
