Dangerous
He holds up a hideous plaid scarf, his eyebrows lifting in question, and I scrunch my face in disgust. Groaning with frustration, he puts the item back, leaving it exactly as he found it. Such a fucking boy scout. The department store is a mad house, picked over items scattered everywhere, but he still took the time to put it neatly in place.
“What was wrong with it?”
“It’s ugly.”
He throws up his hands in question. “She likes plaid. She wears it all the time.”
“That doesn’t mean she should,” I say over my shoulder as I step up to the floral print bag that’s caught my eye.
“All right, so what should I be looking for?” Shrugging, I reach out to feel the material of the bag. “What about that?” His voice is much closer than it had been a minute ago, causing me to jump as I turn my attention to him. He smirks at me, confirming my suspicion that he’d done it on purpose.
I narrow my eyes at him. “She hates floral prints.”
Cat and I have very different taste. I’m pinks and floral prints where she tends to reject anything too girly. Until recently, I thought we even had different taste in men.
His nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath, then runs a hand through his hair. Looking away again to keep from admiring his muscular arms, I step back into the walkway.
“You’re supposed to be helping me here,” he says as he comes up next to me.
Not even bothering to look at him, I begin to head toward the back of the store where they keep all the Christmas decorations. For whatever reason, everyone at work seems to think it’s a great idea to exchange ornaments every year. Since I’m forced to participate, I go out of my way to find the most absurd and ugly ornaments I can. Last year, I picked up one shaped like a pickle and was pleasantly surprised when I discovered there’s a tradition about hiding the pickle in the tree. It’s good luck or some horseshit. Either way, it was a lot of fun teasing our sixty-year-old receptionist, Nancy, about playing hide the pickle. It couldn’t have been more perfect, which means I must up my game this year.
“You probably should have brought Lizzy along. I’m horrible at gift giving,” I admit. His abrupt halt causes me to stop as well, turning to face him as he erupts with laughter. My hand lands on my hip and I roll my eyes. The man is always laughing; no one is this damn happy all the time. “What?”
He shakes his head, his laughter subsiding as he walks over to me. “You don’t think that is something you should have told me before now?”
My lips curve into a crooked smile as we begin to walk again. “I needed someone to drive me around so I could get my shopping done.”
Every year I wait until the last minute to finish my Christmas shopping, and no one ever wants to take me. So, when Steven asked if I would come with him today, I decided to use it to my advantage. I had planned on helping him find the perfect gift for Cat, though. Only now, I realize I have no clue how to do this. I’ve never gotten a gift from a boyfriend at Christmas. Partly because I haven’t had a boyfriend since high school. The only examples I have of the kind of gifts a guy should get a girl he’s dating come from books and movies. It’s always something like a nice pair of earrings or a pretty necklace, and those seem so boring and cliché to me.
My back stiffens as he wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I look over at him out the corner of my eye. “Come on, admit it, you wanted to hang out with me. You want us to be besties.”
“If you don’t get your arm off my shoulder, I’m going to break it.”
He snickers, then quickly removes it, but not before the heat of his body has a chance to seep into my skin, leaving a longing ache on my flesh. Ever since the night I slept in his bed with him snuggled around me, I’ve had a horrible time sleeping. It did a number on my mind and body, and it took me weeks to shake it. Hence, all the nights I spent sleeping in his shirt. The last thing I need is for him to confuse things again.
“All right,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I’m not going home empty handed, so we need to think of something. What would you want a guy you’ve been dating for two months to get you for Christmas?”
My eyes cut over to him. “I thought we already established I don’t do the dating thing.”
He scoffs, scratching at his jaw as he nods his head. “Yep, I got that message loud and clear.” He pauses to give me a pointed look, his lips pressed as though he’s agitated, but there’s a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “But…humor me. If Cat were out helping someone pick out a gift for you, what would you want her to tell them?”
“Fine,” I relent with a huff, my eyes shifting forward as we enter a new aisle. “I’d want her to tell him to get me something personal. Something that symbolized a special moment between us or something he knew would be meaningful to me. I wouldn’t want the type of gift being purchased for hundreds of other women.”
When my answer is met with silence, I turn my head. He’s regarding me in a way that makes me feel so uneasy—like he’s studying pieces of a puzzle, trying to see the full picture.
“Wow,” he says, blowing out a breath as he rubs the back of his neck. “That’s a lot of pressure. Pretty grand expectations from someone who claims to be an awful gift giver.”
I shrug a shoulder. “You asked me what I would want someone to do for me, not what I would do.”
She hasn’t even looked at the menu. She must come here often enough that she doesn’t need to. I, on the other hand, feel completely out of my element. The walls are painted an odd color of green, which is a strange choice for a restaurant, and there’s some bizarre music playing over the loud speaker. That accompanied by all the paper lanterns, plants, and carved wooden animals everywhere, make it hard to keep my focus on the task at hand. Not that it matters. I’ve never had Thai food before and have no clue what any of this stuff is.
Once we finally found a nice gift for Cat, I asked Lori if she would like to get a bite to eat. To my surprise, she said yes, but only if I let her pick the place. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal. Now, I’m wondering if she purposely picked a place she thought I wouldn’t like.
“Something wrong?” She smirks at me, leaning back on the booth as she crosses her arms.
I shake my head. “Nope, everything looks so good, I’m just trying to figure out what I want.”
She huffs out a laugh as the waitress steps up to the table with our drinks. My eyes frantically scan over the menu again, hoping to see something that sounds edible. There’s certainly no way I’m eating raw fish. Once the waitress places our glasses on the table, she asks if we’re ready to order. I look up, considering pointing at something randomly on the menu rather than admit I’m clueless.
“We’ll both have an order of the beef Pho with your thin noodles, and we’d also like four spring rolls please,” Lori says.
The waitress nods and writes down the order before grabbing our menus and scurrying away. When my gaze lands back on Lori, she’s wearing the same smug expression, watching me as if she’s waiting for my objection.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Did you just order for me?”
“Yep.” Her answer is matter of fact, no apology or explanation.
“What if I don’t like Fuh?” I still butcher the word, even though I tried to pronounce it the same way she had. When she bites down on her lip to keep from laughing, I no longer care about being embarrassed. I’d gladly make a fool of myself to get her to laugh. “What the hell is it anyway?”
“It’s good. That’s all you need to know. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
I smack my lips. “Okay then.”
She watches me with suspicion as if she’d been expecting more of a fight from me. There’s no point in arguing, it’s not as if I had the slightest clue about what to order. Anyway, I kind of like that she ordered for me. From what Cat has told me, Lori can be very motherly and overbearing, but only with the people she cares for. Maybe I’m starting to win her over.
Our table goes quiet as her gaze lowers to the table, and I watch as she begins fidgeting—shifting in her seat, running her fingers over the edges of her placemat, and adjusting her silverware. Seeing her like this is such a contrast to the gritty exterior she’s always trying to project. This woman in front of me now, the one who’s feeling anxious from the silence, that’s the real Lori. This is the woman I saw a glimpse of in the coffee shop—the one who pretended to be working as I approached her table, the red on her cheeks spreading as I got closer.
She clears her throat, pulling me from my thoughts. When I meet her narrowed eyes, I realize I’ve been caught staring, and the smile I hadn’t noticed on my lips falls as I straighten my back against the seat.
“So, journalism, is that something you’ve always wanted to do?”
She crosses her arms. “Really? You want to do the small talk thing now?” I shrug, and she sighs. “Fine. No. I hate journalism, if you want to know the truth.”
“So, how did you end up doing it?”
“It was a way for me to use my degree and have an outlet for my writing.”
“Ah, so you’re a writer. That explains a lot.”
She scoffs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “Like what?”
“All the brooding you do.”
“I do not brood!” There’s more humor in her tone than anger as she grabs a wadded-up straw wrapper and hurls it at me. I dodge her weapon of choice with a lopsided grin on my face, holding up my hands in surrender. “All right, enough about me. Why don’t you tell me how you ended up wearing a badge and carrying around a gun? It seems to me if authority and handcuffs do it for you, a BDSM lifestyle would be a lot safer.”
I nearly choke on my water, trying to keep from spitting it out, and the poor waitress’s face is bright red as she places our lunch on the table. Lori looks up at her and smirks, completely unembarrassed that she heard her comment. Once we’re alone again, Lori’s pointed glare lands on me.
I snort and shake my head. “My career choice doesn’t have anything to do with a need for authority or a kinky obsession. It may not be a safe or glamorous job, but I chose it because I want to help and protect people.” Her expression is blank as she continues to stare at me, no flippant comment or sarcastic comeback.
When I pick up my fork to eat, she reaches across the table and yanks it from my hand.
“What are you doing? You can’t eat Pho with a fork.” She holds up the fork as evidence, then slams it on the table. “You must use your chopsticks.”
“Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t know how to use chopsticks.”
She groans, her head dropping as she shakes it. Picking up her chopsticks, she meets my gaze again. “Well, that’s unacceptable. Pick them up, I’ll show you. You cannot be one of those people if we’re going to be friends.”
Though I don’t call her out on what she said, I can’t help the huge smile that spreads across my face as I pick up my chopsticks.
Friends.
It may not be ideal, and maybe even a little dangerous, but I’m still thrilled at the prospect.