Eden

Dinner seemed like such a great idea this morning—but now, pacing the floor of the living area in my unit, I can’t help wondering if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve set the table and I’m ready to go, but with nothing else to do but wait, I’m a mess. First, there’s the fact that I’m not confident about what version of Donovan I’ll be getting tonight. Statistically speaking he’s been more closed off and hostile than friendly-ish which raises the likelihood that he’ll be grumbly tonight. Second… well, let’s be real here. If he actually shows up and he stays, it’ll be just the two of us for however long he wants to stay. I have little to no filter around him and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

My entire body jolts when the doorbell rings. Taking a deep breath, I blow it out slowly as I cross the room to the door. When I open it and see Donovan, my heart slams against my chest. You’d think I’d be less affected by him as time goes by, but that isn’t the case. Instead, his punch is more powerful.

“Hey.”

Realizing that I’ve been staring at him in silence, I swing the door open wide so he can enter. Watching him step into my unit I’m reminded of a spooked horse. That’s when it hits me how big of a deal this is for him, too. Yes, I’m nervous—but Donovan’s edginess runs far deeper than nerves. I caution myself to stay calm and keep things on an easy footing as he walks to my table and sets the pizza boxes down before taking off his leather jacket and hanging it over the back of the chair.

“Chicken parm or ham?” I ask.

Setting the brown bag aside, he opens the top pizza box. “Chicken parm.”

I fist pump. “Sweet—that’s what I was hoping for. I’ll go grab sodas. What would you like, and do you want a glass of ice with it?”

“Yes to the ice. What kind of soda do you have?”

I look back at him over my shoulder when I get to the fridge. “I’m a generic soda drinker all the way. My grandparents were fanatical about it and they passed that down to my mom who then passed it on to me. I have polka-cola, lemon lion, or Dr. Bob. They’re all exactly what they sound like.”

“Dr. Bob.”

I nod and open the door, reaching in and grabbing the bottle of soda. “Good choice. In my opinion, it’s better than the name brand.”

He shakes his head like he can’t imagine that I can possibly be right, which makes me a little smug. Dr. Bob is bomb ass soda. Unlike its name brand counterpart, it doesn’t leave a soapy aftertaste in my mouth. Arriving at the table with two glasses full of ice and a two-liter bottle of Dr. Bob, I set it all down and then pour our drinks. After setting the soda bottle on the counter, I take the seat across from Donovan’s. Only when I do does it occur to me that he remained standing until I was seated. Another piece of his mysterious puzzle fits into place. Beneath the gruff exterior is a gentleman. Suddenly his saving me from falling flat on my ass the first day we met makes more sense.

Taking his seat, he looks over at me with a curious expression. “Pillows, a tablecloth, and a throw blanket? You went all out with the decorating.”

He’s right. I have. “Guilty,” I agree as I cut my chicken parm calzone in half and slide it onto my plate. Once I’ve done that Donovan closes the box and sets it up on the counter before opening his own box. I note that his calzone is full of pepperoni, cheese, and sauce as he cuts half and sets it on his plate. There are few things in life I love more than cheese—particularly when it’s melted. Grabbing my fork, I lean across the table and snag a stray piece of pepperoni enrobed in cheese and bring it to my mouth. Realizing that Donovan is looking at me with surprise, I pause when the fork is almost to my lips.

“Shit,” I mutter as I extend the fork to put the pepperoni back on his plate.

Holding up his hand, he stops me. “What’re you doing?”

“Giving you your food back. I’m sorry for being a pepperoni stealing asshole.”

“It’s fine,” he says as he looks down at his calzone and slices a piece for himself. “Eat it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure I can spare a piece of pepperoni and some cheese, Shortstack.”

Nodding, I bring the fork to my lips and take the bite. The tangy deliciousness of the pepperoni and the ooey gooey goodness of the cheese are perfection. Since I’m not about to start talking and chewing, I give him a thumbs up. He half smiles as he takes a bite himself. After chewing for a few seconds, he returns the thumbs up gesture. Several minutes pass in silence as we eat. Desperate for something to break the silence, I gesture to his glass. “Take a sip and let me know what you think.”

He does, his eyebrows raising in surprise before he takes another sip. “You’re right, this is good. I stand corrected.”

I grin victoriously. “Told you.”

And back to silence. I let it go for another few minutes before I decide something has to be done.

“Any leads on my dad?”

Well then. So much for small talk. It’s like my mouth and my brain aren’t connected when Donovan is around.

He shakes his head. “There’s been nothing concrete yet, but that isn’t unusual at this stage. You shouldn’t worry.”

“But it’s weird, right? That he took my money and disappeared?”

Donovan’s expression goes from reasonably calm to thunderous between one breath and the next. “It’s not that it’s weird, Eden. It’s that it’s fucked up. No parent should ever fuck their kid over.”

I nod because it’s not like I disagree with him. My dad has let me down and it hurts like a bitch. Thinking about my dad leads me to wondering about Donovan’s family.

“Are you close to your parents?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

I wait for him to add more, but he doesn’t. Typical. “Are they close by?” I press.

“Just about an hour away.”

It’s like pulling teeth. “Are they still married?”

“They are.”

I feel like I’d have better luck getting to know a wall. This man is so closed off it’s damn near painful.

“Do you get to see them much?”

He raises a brow and gives me a sardonic look. “Is this a job interview or something?”

I scrunch my nose and give him a dirty look. “It is, and for the record, you’re in danger of not being hired because you’re such a blabbermouth,” I deadpan. “Also, you didn’t answer the question.”

He sighs as he cuts another piece of calzone. “I see them at least twice a month if my dad and I aren’t working on something, in which case I see him more. My mom calls me every other day like clockwork, my dad is more of a texter.”

I smile softly, thinking about how much I miss my mom’s phone calls. “That’s nice,” I murmur. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Nope. Just me.”

This is not a surprise. He’s too quiet and too contained to have come from a large, boisterous family.

“Did you always want to be a skip tracer?”

He’s in the process of lifting his fork, but my question halts his movements. “No,” he answers in a rough voice.

Hoping to smooth over the sudden tension in his frame, I decide to ask another question. “What did you originally want to be, then?”

Bad, bad, bad. I can tell by his reaction that this question was worse than the skip tracer inquiry. “Never mind,” I say as I shake my head frantically. “Ignore me. I was being nosy. We can just… eat. No talking necessary.”

A little of the tension in his frame goes away as he nods. He starts lifting the fork to his mouth again but then seems to think better of it. Dropping it onto his plate, he looks across the table at me. His eyes are full of something all-encompassing and dark, something that lets me know that this piece of his puzzle is a big one. “I always knew I wanted to be a police officer. I was a cop for a few years.”

There’s a barrage of questions that demand to be asked, but I voice none of them. I sense that it cost him to give me that much. No, I need to steer the conversation in a safe direction.

“Do you exercise?”

I mean really. Why didn’t I just ask him about the weather? My conversation skills are ridiculously bad when he’s around.

“Every day.”

“What do you do?”

He pauses and swallows some soda before answering. “I run.”

It’s an ah-ha moment for me. Of course he runs—and I’m not just talking about the physical activity. Hmm.

“Outside or at the gym on Main?” I ask.

“When I’m here, outside. When I’m on the road stuck somewhere I’m not familiar with I use hotel treadmills.”

This couldn’t be more perfect. If he was an indoor runner, I’d have no jump-off point, but now, I’ve got it. “I normally hike, but I’d run if I had someone to do it with. Can I run with you sometime?”

He freezes like a burglar hearing a homeowner arriving back early.

“Run… with me?” he parrots, like he’s not sure he heard me correctly.

“Yeah.”

“You, uh, run?”

I nod. “I used to. Since I got here I’ve mostly been hiking, like I said. Don’t worry though—I’m not a slowpoke. I’m small but fast.”

“Of course you are,” he mumbles. “I’ll think about it.”

Since that’s the most I can hope for, I move on. I’ll let him marinate in my suggestion and see if I can slowly get him to agree. “What else besides running? Because your arms are bigger than they’d be if your only exercise was aerobic.”

“I have a barbell set in my room and I do fifty pull-ups a day.”

My gaze lowers from his face to his chest and arms. I’m in no way surprised to hear that he works that body hard on the daily. His physique makes Michelangelo’s David look like a scrawny slacker. Biting my lip, I try to corral my thoughts as they slide off into an area I shouldn’t be thinking of with him around. Naturally my brain doesn’t listen, the thought that I would pay good money to see Donovan Beckett naked rolling through my mind. God, even thinking about what he’d look like without a shirt on makes me feel like I’m burning up from the inside out. I would do terrible, terrible things to be given the chance to have free access to touch him wherever I wanted to. Since I want to touch him everywhere, it would be money well spent. He’s so damn big I can’t help wondering if he’s big all over. My sex clenches as I imagine him slowly peeling off his clothes, his boxers going down, down, down. I startle back to reality when he makes a growly noise and stands up.

“Dinner was good, but I’ve got work to do back in my room,” he says as he tosses the small remainder of his calzone back into his box and then closes the lid.

I’m not stupid, so I know he’s pulling the eject lever because I was staring at him like he was a display of baked goods. Now I’m turned on and completely embarrassed. Knowing my face is as red as Rudolph’s nose, I swallow down my guilt. “We didn’t even get to try the fries,” I mumble.

“They’re all yours,” he answers as he all but sprints for the door.

“Donovan.”

He stops at the door but doesn’t turn around.

“I really wish you’d stay.”

I watch his shoulders rise and fall with his breath as I wait for him to respond. “I literally can’t,” he answers in a tight voice. “I need to go.”

Without another word, he opens the door and leaves.

Dammit, what is wrong with me?