Page 128 of Now and Then

Navy clears her throat. “You know we’re still here, right?”

Hunter pulls his lips from mine. His chocolate-colored eyes burn with desire. He leans down, about to kiss me again, but suddenly pulls away. My pulse beats a wild rhythm. “Later.” His tone indicates exactly what I can expect later.

“Sutton?” Greer’s voice is muffled from standing half in and half out of the closet.

I bite my lip, smiling at Hunter. “Yeah?”

“Is there a reason you have a stockpile of throw pillows?”

Confused, I break from Hunter and join her. Sure enough, the closet is overflowing with throw pillows in various sizes, hues, and patterns.

“I have no memory of these.” I start laughing immediately, the sound bouncing off the walls as I rummage through the ridiculous amount of pillows. Every time I think I’ve reached the end, there’s another shoved behind it. By the time I pull out the seventh pillow, tears are streaming down my face.

“Good lord, girl.” Navy peers over my shoulder. “This is what we call an addiction.” She grabs a pillow and whaps Hunter on the arm with it.

“Hey, now.” He grabs a rather large pillow and chucks it at her head. Unfortunately, Greer gets caught in the cross fire and goes down in a heap. Thankfully, it’s a soft landing.

Within moments, the three of them are chucking pillows back and forth. Navy grunts when one smashes into her stomach. Greer sneak-attacks and hits Hunter on the back. I step back to survey my collection again, and—I hate to admit it—this might actually border on hoarding. Hunter has said I have a problem with throw pillows, but I guess I truly needed to see it to believe it.

I lean my hip against the empty bookshelf, a bright yellow pillow held against my chest, watching them fill this room with laughter and life, and something inside me melts.

Who cares if the paint color wasn’t what I chose?

Who cares that we had a setback with the guest room?

Who cares about roofs or caterers?

Who cares that these three goofballs are destroying the structural integrity of brand-new throw pillows?

This messy, loud, imperfect moment is what I want every day of forever to feel like. I raise my yellow pillow and toss it.

26

Hunter

My head pounds, eyes twitching at the screen. This week has dragged on. All I want to do is get back home to Sutton. Even running on empty, she’s worth returning to. Her face when I surprised her with her new office days prior reminded me she’s why I push myself so hard.

The remodel. The open house. The case. The relationship we’re growing. It’s a lot. Too much actually. But thanks to Easton calling in a favor for the roof, we’ve got one less thing to worry about.

I lean back in my chair and glance around the office. Chris tinkers with the ancient coffee machine like it’s a bomb. The rest of the officers scattered about the station poke at paperwork or stare off into space. It’s quiet. Almost too quiet.

“Still alive over there, Detective?” Chris calls. He waves a screwdriver like a white flag.

“Barely,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “This week has felt thirty days long.”

“Maybe that’s why the coffee tastes like death,” says Cooper from the corner, holding up a cup with a grimace.

“No,” I respond, “the coffee tastes like death because Chris won’t leave that damn machine alone.”

“Hey, now,” Chris says, “this is temporary. I’m one tweak away from brewing actual coffee instead of jet fuel. Plus, at least it keeps me awake long enough to make me think I’m working.”

I manage a grin. “At least one of us is working today.”

“Speak for yourself, sir,” Rachel mutters from the front desk. She flips through a file at lightning speed. “Some of us actually do paperwork.”

“Paperwork is overrated.” Chris groans. “We want the action. The thrill. The chase. It’s what keeps us young.”

Before I can reply, my phone buzzes on the desk. An unfamiliar number flashes across the screen. I frown.