Page 57 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
Okay. This is how she wants this to go
. “Have a seat.”
“No.”
“Have a seat, Emmy.”
“It’s Emerson.” She glares, her feet shifting as she lowers her phone from her ear. I eye the seat next to her and then look back to her.
“Sit.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she sneers.
“Yeah. Probably. But I’ve had a shitty day, so fucking sue me if I want you to sit and have a few drinks with me and maybe see why your day was so goddamn crappy too . . .” I shrug. “Sit.”
Her emotions wage a war across her face, but I can see reluctance flash through those eyes of hers before she lowers herself to the seat across from me. Without looking away, I lift a hand to the bartender and motion for another round. We don’t speak until the drinks arrive, tension mounting between the two of us for some odd reason.
Foreplay.
I smile at the thought, and I know it pisses her off.
“Since when did you become such a stalker?”
“Me? Stalker?” I laugh, and this banter is just what I need.
“Yeah, word has it that you’ve been asking about where I live.”
“You mean the one question I asked Desi?”
Her lips quirk as she fights a smile. “Yeah, that question.”
“If I’m going to stalk you effectively, don’t I need to know that info?”
She’s still trying to make up her mind whether she likes this idea, just like I’m still trying to figure out if I like her living in the loft of a hangar doing odd jobs in exchange for rent and transportation. Even if it’s for the harmless caretaker, Travis Barnhardt, it’s still another thing on her plate to do when she already does too much.
“Being a cop and all, I figured you had better means than loose-lips Desi.”
“I happen to have a soft spot for loose-lips Desi,” I say just to irritate her.
“No shit. Give the girl William Sonoma, and she’ll sing like a canary.”
I laugh, which draws looks from others around us. “I’m afraid to know what else she confessed.”
“That’s for me to know and you to never know.” Her eyes glance up from her drink and hold mine.
“So, you had a shitty day, too?” I prompt.
She shrugs. “Something like that. What about you? Why was your day so bad?”
“I had a donut delivery even though I hate donuts. My cruiser still smells like them.”
There’s her smile. “Must have been donut torture.”
“Yep. It was. Waterboarding and the smell of donuts are right up there together.” I lean back in the booth and take a long sip of my drink before pushing the bowl of pretzels and nuts across the table toward her. “A call we had today got to me.”
“Want to share?”
“Can’t . . . I just can’t,” I explain, when what I need is to talk about it. But not now. Not with her while I keep seeing her face in Keely’s. Not until I can separate the facts from the past. “What about you?”
