Page 86 of Flint’s Strike

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his shoulders relaxing for the first time tonight.

“You did the hard thing first.” As his heartbeat settles under my palm, mine decides to take up Irish step dancing. “I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve. Or couldn’t work around somehow. My job—my whole life—has always required me to stay in control. Yesterday morning, I saw you in pain, and I wanted to help. Not fix. Help. That could have looked like sittin’ with you until it passed or getting you an ice pack or distracting you with all the random trivia I know because my partner is a walking, talking encyclopedia.”

Eliot chuckles. “He really is.”

“You have no idea. Do not ever go on a stakeout with him. The last time, I was actively searching for ways to perform a lobotomy with a set of car keys.”

“On him? Or on yourself?”

“By hour six, I didn’t care.” I drop my hand to my thigh, plucking at the hem of my sundress while I search for the right words to tell him the rest. “When you slammed the door, the only option I had left—the only one I could control—was leaving.”

Eliot covers my hand with his. “We both made mistakes. And I reckon we’ll make more. But can we agree that next time, we’ll stay in the room and figure things out together?”

The heat of him seeps into every part of me. His eyes darken, the emotion in them dangerously real. I don’t look away, hoping he understands that whatever this is between us, I feel it too. “We stay in the room. Together.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Eliot

The wine is gone, and I can’t remember the last time I had a meal this good. Or conversation this easy. Parker swears like she’s gotta use up all the good profanity before it spoils in the fridge, and that’s a turn-on I never knew I had.

We move into the living room after dinner, slices of pecan pie topped with vanilla ice cream in our hands.

“This is my mom’s recipe,” she says, her voice carrying a mountain of sadness she’s barely holding back. “She won bake-offs with it for years. But it’s never come out the way I remember.”

I dredge my fork into the sticky caramel concoction. The first bite is heaven. “This is the best damn pie I’ve ever tasted.”

She smiles, a little of the melancholy fading. “I didn’t say it was bad. Just…not what it should be.”

Setting the plate down, I rest my hand on her knee, bare skin warm and soft under my palm. The hem of her dress rides up just enough, the bandage on her thigh peeks out from under it. She’s still healing, and the reminder of how quickly we went from strangers to…this…is staggering. But I don’t think those stitches are the only wound she’s carrying.

“It came from her. But it’s yours now. Maybe it’s exactly what it should be.”

Her eyes shimmer in the soft light, and she manages a small smile. “You’re gettin’ dangerously close to sappy, Flint.”

I chuckle. “Must be the wine. We’ll stick to Shiner from here on out. Or bourbon.”

“Good plan.”

She takes a bite of pie dredged in ice cream, and a bit of caramel sticks to the corner of her mouth. Leaning in, I drag my thumb over the drop, then taste it.

“Eliot, you keep touchin’ me, and this pie’s gonna go to waste.” Through the soft drape of her dress, her nipples tighten. “I’m already having a hard time rememberin’ how to use a fork.”

I scoop up a bite of my own slice, and bring it to her lips. “I’m happy to help…”

Christ. Watching Parker eat is the stuff of every man’s fantasy. Her lips close around the tines of the fork, and I forget to breathe. My dick strains against my zipper as her tongue darts out to catch a bit of vanilla ice cream before it can hit her chin. And my God in heaven, the way her throat works around a swallow? Wars have been fought over less.

“You always this…obliging?” she asks. “Or are you tryin’ to see how long we can go without tearing each other’s clothes off?”

“Yes. And…yes. But I’ll stop. For now. Only because there are dishes to be done. And my former captain drilled it into us from day one—whoever cooks doesn’t lift a damn finger to clean up. I ain’t worked for that man in seven years, but somehow, he’d know I broke the rules and he’d write me up anyway.”

Parker laughs, the sound rich and full and perfect. It lights up her whole face, crinkling the corners of her eyes and curving her lips in a way I can barely resist kissing.

“Well, far be it from me to stop you. But finish your pie first.” She scoots back a couple of inches, putting enough space between us for me to think with my head and not my dick. “So how often were you the cook when you were a firefighter?” she asks. “And what was your go-to dish?”

“I was the breakfast for dinner guy. Chilaquiles, quiche, migas, huevos rancheros. Anything I could abandon if a call came in. All of it spicy. We had this one guy, Tanner, who grew up in Wisconsin. Anything hotter than a bell pepper, and he’d be reachin’ for the milk. Got to be I’d make a separate pan of whatever was on the menu so I didn’t have to hear him complain about his tongue bein’ on fire every time.”

“Nate orders his Pad Thai zero stars.” Parker shakes her head and finishes the last bite of her pie. “Wimp.”