Cooking dinner with Ian Hawthorn. Never in all of Riva’s fantasies about Ian had cooking a meal with Officer Hawthorn come up. Maybe she needed to expand her horizons.
Working with sharp knives meant keeping her mind on her work, and in this kitchen, it was a pleasure. Whoever designed the kitchen remodel had had a chef in mind. The cooktop was built into a workspace across from the fridge, with the ovens built into the wall adjoining. “Let’s start with the tarts. Wash and slice the new potatoes and shred the Emmentaler.”
She handed him a knife and turned back to the puff pastry dough, letting her mind wander as she assembled the tarts. Like any other experience with Ian, this one was causing some serious cognitive dissonance, not least because she’d never expected to bring a man home.
Forget the fact that the man you’ve brought home isn’t actually a boyfriend, much less a serious one. Ignore that. Instead, think about how normal this is. You’re worrying about your mother’s Valium-induced stupor, your father’s ability to find any weakness or flaw and exploit it for his own amusement. You’re worrying about having sex without your parents hearing.
“How’s this?”
Think about Ian, calmly slicing potatoes while NPR plays in the background. Think about how normal that could be.
She came back to herself with a start. Ian stood at her shoulder, the first stalk of celery nicely minced. His hazel eyes were calm, like he was relaxed, enjoying himself, just hanging out with a friend who might become something more than a friend. She was having a hard time reconciling curt, resolute Officer Hawthorn from her past with Ian, who seemed to have an incredibly thick skin and a limitless supply of patience.
So forget Officer Hawthorn. Let Ian be Ian. Just for now.
“Good,” she said. She took the knife from his unresisting fingers, chopped the dill and mint just a little more, then held it out to him. “That’s better.”
He tipped his head down, in that one movement making her extremely aware of their height difference, and murmured, “It is.”
“What?”
His fingers brushed her palm as he claimed the knife. “You didn’t flinch.”
He didn’t push. Smart man, because the whole scene was doing the work for him. The spring afternoon pushed into evening, the golden light gilding the gray-painted chairs and table, the granite counters, Ian’s hair as he worked. Cooking smells had long anchored her memories, and this was no exception. The dance they did in the kitchen, his skin against hers as he passed her a bowl of chopped strawberries, her hand on his back as she passed behind him, moving from fridge to sink. The muscles were firm, lean. The look on his face as he stirred, concentrating, but without the intense focus he’d worn in the car years ago. Then he’d looked hard, combative, unyielding. Now his defenses were down. All he was thinking about was the process of preparing food.
She wanted more of everything, the scents of the food, the warm spring air, Ian working quietly by her side. So she opened all the windows and let the twilight sounds stream in, adding a layer of lilac to the atmosphere.
Her mother came downstairs as she pulled the three sample tarts from the oven; her father pulled into the driveway not long after.
“Should I set the dining room table?”
“Let’s eat in here.” She opened the cabinet holding her mother’s everyday dishes and grabbed dinner plates, bread plates, salad plates. “Here. Silverware’s in that drawer, and place mats are in the sideboard.”
Dinner was awkward. Her father took one look at her mother’s glassy eyes and swaying stance and said, “Looks like another early bedtime for someone.” It was the tone a parent would use with a cranky toddler.
Her mother’s eyes widened slowly. “But I’m not tired,” she protested faintly. “I had a headache, so I took some medicine. I want to stay up with Riva—”
“You are tired. It was a big day for you.” He tossed keys, wallet, cell phone carelessly on the counter. “You chose the china, right? That’s a big day for some people.”
Her mother blinked slowly, then looked at Riva. “We did,” Riva said brightly. “The Asprey, remember? It’s your favorite.”
“The Asprey. Yes. I’m really not tired, Rory. I want to stay up and spend time with Riva.”
“Maybe tomorrow night. Tonight you’d best eat, then get upstairs.”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Rory pursed his lips, then studied her over the rim of his whiskey glass. “How does Sugar look to you, Riva?”
Oh, no. “I noticed the white in her muzzle,” Riva said, “but she still seems pretty chipper to me.”
“If you were around more, you’d see the difference. She’s started having accidents.”
“One or two,” her mother protested. “Only because she got locked in the closet in the basement. I couldn’t find her for the longest time.”
“She was only in there ten minutes,” her father snapped. “She’s old.”
Riva’s heart wrenched to think of that poor little dog, locked in the dark, and her mother frantically searching for her. She had no doubt who’d shut Sugar in the closet.
“I think it was longer,” her mother replied, but her gaze had taken on a worried, unfocused look. “I’m sure it was.”
“It wasn’t. When they start to have accidents, it’s time to put them down.”
“Rory, please, it was just a couple of accidents. I’ve been taking her out more often.”
“What if she’s in pain?”
Her mother’s eyes teared up. “Don’t say that. Don’t say she’s in pain.”
“She might be, and couldn’t tell you.”
“Dad, I’m sure she’s not in pain,” Riva said.
“Remember when she was limping a month or so ago? Like she’d hurt her hip trying to get into your lap?”
Her mother’s face went white. Riva had no doubt in her mind that Sugar’s injury wasn’t accidental.
“She’s not a young dog anymore. You should think about putting her out of her misery.”
For a long moment no one spoke. Then her mother said, “I am rather tired. I’ll go to bed now.”
She reached down and picked up Sugar, then turned and shuffled along the hallway, one trembling hand trailing along the wall for balance. Silence reigned in the kitchen when they heard the click of a latch upstairs.
Other men got angry over normal things. The wrong kind of whiskey in the drinks cabinet, or running out of expensive cigars. An ink stain on the caramel leather seats in the car. She’d once watched a man climb out of his Hummer and go off on his pregnant girlfriend because she’d hung a waffle-weave shirt on a hanger which left a dorky lump in the fabric on his bulked-up shoulders. But not her father. He dug into the things she or her mother loved, like china or food, feigned an interest until they thought he shared their joy, then twisted it and used it until what they’d once loved was ruined. After this, her mother would never enjoy her pretty china sets again.
“China. We’ve got five different china services. None of them change the way the food tastes,” he said to Ian.
Riva’s heart was pounding its way out of her throat. She risked a glance at Ian. His face was as blank as a wall, a look she knew very well signaled barely contained fury.
“You didn’t have to do that, Dad,” Riva said. It was risky, contradicting her father when he was in a mood like this one. “Sugar seems fine to me. Mom could have made it through dinner. It might have done her good to eat something with people, have a conversation.”
He wheeled on her, face dark with rage. “How would you know?”
She felt Ian stiffen and shift his weight in her direction. “I’m just saying, maybe a change in diet or some alternative treatments for her headaches, acupuncture, that sort of—”
“Who’s going to take her to the appointments? Not me. I’ve got a business to run. Not you. You haven’t graced us with your presence in seven years. A good daughter would be here to help her, take her shopping, get her out to a museum or something. You say you want to help me run my business? That’s how you help. I don’t have time to babysit someone who should be able to take care of herself. And don’t get me started on that stupid little dog shitting in my house.”
Any more of this and Ian was going to step in. “You’re right,” she said quickly. “I haven’t been around much. I’ll just take her a plate and come right back down.”
“The hell you will.”
Ian flicked her a glance. Don’t. Not yet. Burning with rage and humiliation, Riva sat back down and tried to figure out how to salvage this. “Remember what I said this morning? Maybe I need to get more involved at home too.”
“You bet your ass you do, girlie.” He held her gaze. “What kind of china do you have?” he asked.
He wasn’t ready to let it go. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Lie? Tell the truth and play it up? Down? “I bought a box of odds and ends at an auction when the farmer between my farm and the highway sold his place.”
“It doesn’t match.”
“No. Most of the serving pieces came from department store brands in the 1950s, back when department stores used to make their own.”
Her father turned to Ian. “How does the food taste on those plates? Is it any worse because it’s served on junk-sale dishes?”
“I’ve only had one meal at Riva’s farm, and someone else cooked it,” Ian said. “One of her working students. What was it, Riva?”
“Chicken with shallots” Riva said. She could have kissed him for turning the conversation to her farm. “The working student program really took off this spring. Kids from food deserts come out to the farm and work through the entire growing cycle, from preparing the soil for planting, to harvest, then to prepping the food for the table.”
The moment vibrated like dropped pan. Come on, Dad. Turn on a dime. Be an unpredictable bastard. Then her father said, “What’s a food desert?”
“Inner-city neighborhoods, mostly. Places where grocery stores have given up because the profit margins aren’t high enough, so most of the food is either prepackaged or from fast food restaurants. These kids are unfamiliar with fruits beyond apples or bananas and have almost no knowledge of most vegetables, much less how to grow or prepare them.”
Her father was losing interest, but at least his rage had subsided.
“How big is the urban-garden movement?” Ian asked casually, giving her something to talk about but matching Rory’s demeanor.
“It’s really growing,” she said. “Just about every major city has a few gardens with outreach programs to restaurants. Chicago’s one of the biggest. It’s still kind of under the radar, because it’s not directly connected to job training or GEDs or after school programs, but Growing Home in particular has made that kind of outreach a big part of their efforts. Lots of inner-city kids get involved.”
Take the bait, Dad. Take the bait.
“Sounds like there are some interesting growth options in the model,” her father said.
“Absolutely,” Riva said, nodding like a bobblehead doll. “Consumers want organic and fresh food, grown by people they know, and the work itself can be really transformative. It’s a win-win.”
“Let’s talk about that later.”
“Sure,” Riva said. Her heart was aflutter, and her smile far too wide for the circumstances. Her heart, she found, was racing well into the red zone.
They sat down and Riva served the food. “What am I eating?” her father said.
“A rough draft of the menu for the lunch,” Riva said. “We visited a couple of the bigger co-ops today, Growing Home and Urban Canopy. I’m going to develop the menu from what’s available right now. What do you think?”
“It’s good,” her father said grudgingly. “What’s in the salad?”
“Potatoes, romaine hearts, cucumbers, radishes. The dressing is made with white wine vinegar and Greek yogurt.”
“You helped make this? Was that a big day for you?”
Ian shrugged. “It was fine,” he said. Nothing in his tone hinted at his total absorption with chopping the strawberries, or crimping the pastry, or the way his hand lingered over hers as they passed bowls back and forth. “Interesting. I guess.”
“You kids have plans for tonight?”
“Kelly wants to go out.” The salad was dry on Riva’s tongue, not even the sweet pear juice breaking through to ease the bitterness. She set her knife and fork on her plate. “Having me in town is a good excuse for a girls’ night.”
“Are you going on this girls’ night?” her father asked Ian.
He laughed, just a hint of self-consciousness in the chuckle. “Tell me you have a better offer.”
“Not tonight, but tomorrow night come on down to the gym. My guys will be doing their workouts then.”
“Sounds great,” Ian said.
Riva looked at her watch. “We should start getting ready.”
Ian reached across the table and lifted her plate. “I’ll clean up. I only need a few minutes.”
BH, or Before Hawthorn she’d spent hours thinking about her appearance. Her hair, thick and wavy without intervention, had been the bane of her existence, requiring regular straightening and curling up again when the humidity went over forty percent. She’d dressed to show off her assets, a flat stomach, slim hips, and accentuated what she didn’t have with a pushup bra and a low-cut top. She’d been pretty, if the definition meant “looked like everyone else out there.”
Then she started working at the co-op, then as a working student on farms around Lancaster, and her fashion attention shifted to Carhartts and muck boots, which long underwear insulated the best, and what brand of gloves provided both mobility and warmth. And she’d started eating, first other people’s good cooking, then her own. The flat belly was gone. So were the slim hips. She carried a little extra flesh around her hips, which pooched into a muffin top when she wore her matchstick jeans. She hadn’t exactly let herself go. She’d just started thinking about other things besides her appearance.
“At least you’ve got boobs now.” She yanked the sky-blue camisole over her head, shimmied into the black skirt, and crammed her feet into the nude heels, then took a couple of minutes to remember how to walk in them.
Ian’s footsteps rang lightly on the stairs, then the door to his room closed. She hurried into the bathroom, then knocked on the door, shrugging into a cropped, fitted jean jacket as she did. “I’m almost ready,” she said, low voiced.
“Give me a second,” he replied.
Riva pulled out her makeup bag. She’d spent too much time outside without sunscreen today, so her nose and cheeks were a little pink. Eyeliner, dark shadow, mascara. Glossy lipstick. There was no time to straighten her hair, so she went the opposite direction and spent thirty seconds spraying, scrunching, and tousling.
The door opened midspritz. Ian waved his hand in front of his face. “That stuff stinks.”
Riva turned and stared. He’d added a skin-tight gray T-shirt to the jeans and a wide brown leather belt. The brown leather jacket from her dreams dangled from one finger. The T-shirt lay lovingly against his ribs and abdomen. A memory spiked through Riva, halting her breath.
* * *
“Be careful,” he said.
One leg out the door in the cold, steady November wind, she paused and looked at him. “What?”
“Be careful. This guy’s higher up the totem pole. If they make you, they won’t hesitate to kill you. Stay in my sight at all times. Whatever you do, don’t get in his car.”
“I know. If I get in his car and you guys have to come get me, I blow the operation. I’m not going to do that. Believe me, I want out of this as badly as you do.”
“No. If you get in his car, we might not get to you in time, and he might kill you. Do. Not. Get. In. His. Car. I don’t care how cold you are. Fucking walk away before you get in his car. Do you understand?”
The coat. This was all about the coat, the one she wasn’t wearing because she’d wanted to provoke him. He was worried about her being warm enough. She stared at him. He’d never said anything like this before. “I understand. Besides, the only car I’m getting in and out of these days is yours.”
He let her go. “Hold on, dammit.”
When she looked back he was shrugging out of his coat, banging his elbow against the Chevy’s steering wheel as he did. He held it out to her. “The only other jacket I have in this car has LPD on the back. You can’t wear that.”
The gesture sent a shiver of delight through her. “Does this mean we’re going steady?”
She’d meant to tease him, to lighten the mood a little, but instead his face closed off. “I’m protecting my asset,” he said in a voice as biting as the wind outside the car. “You’re no good to me if you freeze to death.”
* * *
“Hello?”
Riva slammed back into the present. Ian was looking at her, one eyebrow raised, as if he’d said something and she’d missed it because she was lost in the memory of the smell of that coat, leather and Ian’s skin and a faint scent of something that could be cologne.
“Okay. Fine. Good,” she said nonsensically.
“Did you hit your head or something?”
“I remember that jacket,” she said. “From before.”
He paused in the act of shrugging into the jacket. “Yeah. I’ve had it for a long time.”
“The nights were cold, so you made me wear it. It smelled like you. Remember?”
The leather settled around his shoulders. “I remember,” he said quietly. “You’d give it back and it would smell like your perfume.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said,” he growled. “Let’s go.”
Her father stood in the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his gaze glued to his phone.
In that moment Riva wanted desperately to defy her father, stay home, and protect her mother. She’d bake fresh cookies and get a pint of really good ice cream, and go upstairs to watch the home makeover shows her mother loved. Only after her father had abandoned her to Ian’s not-so-tender mercies did she realize what she’d lost by choosing her father over her mother, how screwed up it was that she’d even thought she had to make that choice.
But if she stayed home, she’d lose all the progress she made ingratiating herself back into her father’s confidence. If she stayed home, she lost the chance to get her mother free forever.
Right now she had to think about the case. Letting her father win this tiny battle was the sacrifice to make to ensure he wouldn’t freeze her out. Give a little to get a lot.
“Don’t stay out too late,” her father cautioned. “We’ll run a route tomorrow, show you how a real business runs.”
For a split second, Riva couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. She knew how the business ran. She’d done the books, run routes, placed orders, managed the warehouse. But her father wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Ian.
“Sounds great,” Ian said. He sounded excited, even a little eager.
Back down the flagstone walk to her truck, parked at the curb. Riva hitched her skirt up to the tops of her thighs and clambered into the driver’s seat. Her hands were shaking as she jammed the key into the ignition.
“Has he always been like that?”
She turned the key with more force than necessary. “Like what?” she bluffed.
Silence. She finally turned and looked at him. “Yes. I didn’t really understand until … until I left for college. I’m not just doing this for Isaiah. He’s all but destroyed her. I want him to go away for a very long time.”
“That’s why you keep setting yourself up as his partner in Lancaster.”
She had to be very, very careful here. “Seven years ago I was too weak to get myself out,” she said as she pulled out onto the street and headed for Kelly’s place. “If he hadn’t refused to help me when you arrested me, God only knows what I’d be doing right now. I’m stronger now. I just hope I’m strong enough to get her free, too.”
”You were stronger than you think you were,” he said. “I put you through hell, and you never hesitated.”
“What choice did I have?”
He didn’t answer that. He’d made sure she had no choice at all.
“I can’t take credit for what I did when my back was to the wall, because I put my back at that wall. I couldn’t help her before. I can now. I know it’s not part of the plan, but I’m not leaving without her.”
“Hey,” he said, reaching out to tuck her hair back from her face. “Plans change. You worry about your mom. I’ll worry about your dad. Okay?”
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. He didn’t say anything else on the way to Kelly’s. The front door opened before Riva had shifted into park. Kelly paused in the doorway to kiss Grant and Wyatt good-bye. Grant waved at Kelly, waving Wyatt’s fat little fist for him as Kelly walked backward to the truck. Riva flung open the truck’s door and trotted up the sidewalk to hug Kelly, hard. “It’s so good to see you!”
“I know, it’s been forever!” she said breathlessly. “Was I even pregnant the last time you saw me?”
“I don’t think so,” Riva said, laughing. “You look amazing!”
“You do, too. All that sunshine and work outdoors really agrees with you. You’re, like, healthy looking. Come say hi to Grant and meet Wyatt!”
Riva’s heart was pounding as she followed Kelly up the walk, but Grant didn’t seem to see anything odd in her sudden reappearance. Wyatt was fussy, reaching for his mother, whimpering when she kissed his cheek but Grant successfully distracted him with a stuffed rabbit. As the front door closed she felt a swift pang of longing. Maybe someday she’d meet someone who wouldn’t care about her family, her past.
Ian had watched the reunion from the truck’s cab, and was waiting patiently for them. Kelly climbed into the back seat and looked expectantly at Riva.
“Kelly, Ian. Ian, Kelly.”
“Hi,” Kelly said, then gave a breathless little squeal and reached between the seats to squeeze Riva’s shoulder. “I’m so excited! I haven’t seen you in, like, years. Remember buying those fake IDs from that kid in chemistry class? What was his name? He was supersmart and superstoned for most of school.”
“Noah.” Her ears were burning. Nothing like sitting next to the straight-laced cop who had arrested you for selling drugs while your best friend talked about all kinds of illegal activities. “His name was Noah and can we talk about something else?”
“Oh, come on,” Kelly said. “That was, like, eight years ago. Ian doesn’t care, do you?”
“Nope,” Ian said cheerfully.
“Noah had some kind of laminating machine, or something, and could mock up an ID, no problem. He used to do out-of-state IDs because the bouncers never knew what was an authentic Maine license, or Utah. He was pretty good at it. I wonder what he’s doing now? He’s one of, like, six people in our class who isn’t on Facebook, including you.”
“I do social media for the farm and the restaurant,” Riva protested.
“But how do we keep up on you? What you’re doing?”
“The farm’s social media,” Riva said. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“Ian’s on social media,” Kelly said, scrolling down on her phone. “Fallon, right? In Lancaster. I sent you a friend request.”
“Got it,” Ian said, thumbing through his own phone. “And now we’re friends.”
Kelly kept up a running series of questions about the farm and Ian’s pictures until they pulled into Lit’s parking lot. After Kelly slid out of the truck, Riva leaned over. “You have social media set up?”
“Of course. It’s the first thing anyone checks these days. Most people accept friend requests from anyone. We’ve found outstanding warrants when they post pictures of themselves out in public, and used pictures of stolen property as evidence.”
It was a little early, so the line to get in wasn’t long. The bouncer gave their IDs a cursory glance. “How depressing. We must actually look our age,” Kelly said. She headed straight for the bar.
“Hold on a second,” Ian said. “Who’s driving?”
“Not me,” Kelly said. She leaned over the gleaming metal bar and signaled for the bartender. “An apple martini, please. Riva?”
“I’m driving,” Riva said. “It’s my truck.”
“I’ll drive,” Ian said. “You two should have fun tonight.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Keys.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command, part cop, part protective man.
“You’re wonderful,” Kelly gushed, casting Riva an unsubtle look. “That’s really great of you. What are you drinking?”
“A mojito,” Riva said, giving in to the inevitable and handing Ian her key chain. No way was Ian Hawthorn getting drunk under these circumstances. “But I’ve got to be able to work tomorrow, so I’m not getting trashed.”
“Just loose.” Kelly handed over a credit card to start a tab. Ian ordered a beer.
They checked out the scene while they finished the cocktails. “Wow. Was it always this rundown?”
Riva smiled. The place really hadn’t changed, the dance floor a little more scuffed, the finish on the bar a little more worn. It had the look of a place that went big with a particular age group and had never found a way to change with the times. “Remember how cool we thought we were?”
“We’re still cool,” Kelly said loyally. “Let’s dance!”
Riva looked at Ian, but he seemed to be quite content to nurse a beer and stake out a table between the bar and the dance floor. She let Kelly tow her to the dance floor. Once out there, she lost herself in the music. She’d always loved dancing, and for a while, thanks to the alcohol and the rhythm, her brain pushed aside the nagging reminder of Ian’s presence.
Until her gaze caught his across the room.
The look he flicked her, green-brown, molten, promising a level of heat and risk and desire she’d never felt, halted her breath midexhale. Images swept through her mind, the metal door hard against her shoulder blades, his hands snagging in her tangled hair, his cock grinding into her abdomen. His mouth would be hot, his skin would taste of salt and soap.
She left Kelly dancing with a younger guy, obviously alone, and obviously not interested in anything more than a partner who knew how to move, and pushed her way through the crowd to his table. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Ask me to dance with you.”
He looked at her. Based on the residual foam in his glass, he was still nursing the same beer while she was two mojitos and an hour of dancing into the night, an assessment he made with one single flick of his gaze. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Think of it as part of your cover.” She let her gaze travel the length of his body, from hazel eyes to the deep creases along his mouth, across his muscled chest to his buckle to his boots, then back up. He shook his head.
“You know what I’ve figured out? You’re afraid. All the time. You use your rules and your goals and your attitude to hold it back. The question is, why?”
Wow, the mojitos were doing a fair bit of talking for her right now. When he said nothing, she turned to go back to the dance floor. He reached for her wrist and brought her up short. “I’m afraid for you. Two dinners with your dad and I know we’ve got good reason to be on high alert right now.”
She laughed. “That’s just life with my dad. Come on. Are you afraid for me, or of me? You don’t have any reason to be afraid of me. Unless…”
Unless she could hurt him somehow. Unless he felt more for her than he’d ever let on. Unless this wasn’t just physical chemistry between them. “Unless…” she said again, this time in a stronger voice.
He stepped into her personal space, using his body to guide her back toward the dance floor. “Dance with me, Riva.”
His body and the pounding rhythm derailed her train of thought. “Sounds like an order. Ask me.”
He laughed, half turned away, and ran both his hands through his hair. She felt an unaccountable urge to smooth down the tousled strands but held back. Ian needed to stop locking away his emotions.
He also needed to ask. For himself, for her, for the fragile, reckless thing shimmering between them. There were a dozen ways she could have made this take a different path, things she should have said at certain moments, or not said, touches she should have resisted, doors she should have left closed, much less not walked through. This was one of them.
“Ask me,” she whispered.
He stepped into her personal space until her cells were vibrating in his direction, magnetized and drifting, all but closing the gap between them. Then he did this thing she felt before she saw, using his shoulders and his hips to get closer without confining her, much less touching her. He bent his head, and all she could think was how badly she wanted him to close that distance, how she wasn’t flinching.
“Riva, would you dance with me?”
His breath eddied against her cheek as he spoke, and oh, oh, oh, this was new, different, dangerous, because that single step into vulnerability turned the tables on her. She blinked, drew in a shuddering breath, because this … this was intimacy. Pulsating lights, throbbing music, a crush of people could have made it sterile, disconnected. Instead, she felt lit up, like his heartbeat was making her rib cage jump and thud, not the bass.
“There. Was that so hard?”
“I’m afraid of myself. I’m really afraid of you.”
It was an admission of vulnerability she hadn’t expected. Fear of failure, fear of letting the department down, fear of getting played again were all logical fears, common fears. But afraid of himself? Or her?
Now wasn’t the time to talk, not with the music dialed up to jet engine levels. Now was the time to move. On tiptoe, she said, “Then we both need this,” then grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor.
There was always that transition moment, dancing with someone new, that moment where you figured out where to put hands, how close was close enough to dance but not so close you set off proximity alarms. All she could think about was the slight pressure of his fingers around hers, not a cop’s dispassionate touch and definitely not making her flinch.
When they’d established some space for themselves on the crowded floor, he started moving to the beat, finding a rhythm with his hips with an ease that all but made her jaw drop open. The song had a faster beat, a souped-up synth pop song extended for a club mix, the kind of thing it was easy to sway and shuffle to, maybe lift your arms for a little extra something.
Ian was doing all of those things, but with a total lack of self-consciousness. His eyes were closed, a little half smile on his face, like he’d rediscovered something he used to love.
Then they opened again, found her standing stock-still in shock. He slid his hand to the small of her back and bent his head to her ear. “Come on, Riva. Dance with me.”
Danger! Danger! Danger! her brain flared, not like a car alarm but like lights and sirens. Uneven terrain, edge of a cliff, rogue wave, metal glinting in the hand of a stranger in a dark alley, this moment could make or unmake you. But it wasn’t the risk of his hand on her body. This was deeper, different. This was never going away, and suddenly she didn’t know if she could handle what she’d asked for.
Without waiting for her response, Ian slid his arm around her waist, dropped low to align their hips, and transformed the thumping bass into a sexy bump and grind that was pure rhythmic invitation.
This was Ian as she’d never seen him, connected to his body in a way that felt real and honest and true. The boy had moves based on total comfort in his body, not looking cool or impressing girls but rather on feeling everything the music pushed at them in waves. A not-quite-subtle twist of his hips unlocked hers, as if her body was connected to his, easy and loose and uninhibited. Freefall. His arm dropped away, replaced by glancing, seductive bumps, hips and thighs and shoulders, bare hands brushing bare arms. They’d left their jackets in the truck. Sensations heightened. His jeans against her bare legs. His arms, rough with hair, against hers. All five fingers flattened against the small of her back for a second, two, three, while he slid his thigh between her legs and shimmied. She lifted her arms, closed her eyes, and swiveled in a circle in front of him, tossing her head so her hair whipped across her cheeks and mouth.
Electric heat shot through her, followed by syrupy desire searing over newly sensitized nerves. From there it was nothing to wrap her arm around his neck and cling. One hand rested on her hip, fingers trembling, the touch light, at the edge of his control, but when she pressed her open mouth to his pulse, he pulled her close enough that they were simulating sex on the dance floor. She turned feral, grabbing his shoulder, his hip, grinding against him.
She’d fooled herself into thinking she knew him, understood him. But the reality was Ian was hotter, wilder, more intense, more sexual than she’d ever imagined. This was the man underneath the cop’s rigid, controlled exterior?
She pushed away, gaining precious inches of distance. He surfaced from the spell they’d cast, gaze heavy lidded and possessive. For tonight, she was the girl she’d never been, out with a friend, attracted to a hot guy, not a care in the world.
“Come home with me,” she said. “Ian. Come home with me.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.