Page 23 of Flashpoint
That thought is dangerous.
"So," she says, setting down her glass. "The rain check."
"The rain check." I turn back to the stove, checking the chicken. Easier to have this conversation when I'm not staring directly at her. "I meant what I said in the parking lot. I'm having trouble remembering this is fake."
"Me too."
The admission is quiet, almost reluctant. I glanceover my shoulder to find her studying her wineglass like it holds the answers to the universe.
"Since when?" I ask.
"I don't know. The riverside conversation, maybe? When you asked about my dad and actually listened to the answer." She takes a breath. "Or maybe the other night, when I saw all those certifications and realized I'd completely misjudged you."
"The couch moment."
"The couch moment," she agrees. "When we almost..."
"Yeah."
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the sizzle of the pan and the distant sound of traffic outside. I plate the chicken, add the mushroom sauce, and carry both plates to the small dining table I've already set with actual cloth napkins because apparently I'm trying to impress her.
She joins me at the table, and for a few minutes we eat in a silence that's more comfortable than awkward. The chicken is good—one of my better efforts—and the wine does go with everything.
"This is delicious," Riley says, and she sounds almost annoyed about it. "Why are you good at this?"
"Natural talent. Also, years of practice."
"Humble too."
"It's one of my many virtues."
She laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest. I want to make her laugh like that all the time. I want to cook for her and watch her smile and argue about evidence protocols until we're both breathless.
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. The wanting isn't new—I've been fighting it for days—but this certainty, this need for it to mean something beyond cameras and PR... that's different. That's dangerous.
"Riley." I set down my fork. "Cards on the table. I like you. Not fake-like, not for-the-cameras-like. Actually, genuinely, inconveniently like you."
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. "Inconveniently?"
"Extremely inconveniently. You're prickly and stubborn and you think I'm a charming idiot?—"
"I don't think you're an idiot."
"—and you have terrible taste in coffee when left to your own devices, and you talk in your sleep about accelerant patterns. And my shoulders, apparently." I hold her gaze. "So yes. Inconveniently."
She's staring at me like I've just solved a case she's been working for months. Then, slowly, she sets down her fork.
"I talked about your shoulders?"
"You called them 'unnecessarily broad.'" I can't help the grin. "I took it as a compliment."
Her face goes bright red. "I'm never sleeping in your presence again."
"That seems extreme."
"I have no control over what I say unconsciously. It's a liability."
"Or," I offer, "it's the most honest version of you."
