CHAPTER 15
Zoe
Okay, confession time.
I knew I hadn’t texted Mina. I’d just wanted to see if Dylan would come.
Only, I wasn’t actually expecting him and his brown hair and blue eyes to show up in the night, in the snow. But I could not for the life of me get a handle on Dylan. Was he being helpful because he was now my police officer, or because he wanted to fuck my brains out? One minute he’d be all polite and reserved, and the next, he’d be wrapping his hands around my waist or almost leaning in for a kiss. It was like he couldn’t make up his fucking mind — and yeah, I know it’s the pot calling the kettle black.
And even just then, talking about getting a lift, I wasn’t sure where we stood. Did he want this? Did he want me? I thought I knew the answer, but God, I couldn’t say with any certainty. All I could say for sure was that Dylan was driving me home. Besides that? Anybody’s damn guess. I suppose it was time for me to fucking live a little and stay in the moment.
So here we were, bundled into the car, with him once again dropping me off at my home — only this time, I wasn’t borderline unconscious from stress, and I wasn’t in his arms, not yet, anyways. No, on the contrary, every part of me was blisteringly awake.
The ride passed in relative silence. I think both of us were too afraid to talk, in case it led to something more. And yet, in spite of that fear, when we finally pulled up to my house, I found myself saying, “Let me thank you for your help.”
As floated previously, I’d changed my mind. A man like that, with manners and abs like those… I couldn’t resist the temptation of having him join me. While the civilized part of me understood all the reasons why not, the animalistic part of me didn’t give a flying fuck.
“That’s not necessary,” he replied smoothly. “Like I said. Happy to oblige.”
I took a breath, and murmured, “You said I had to come around to the Fallow Springs way of thinking — hard work and whiskey. Can I offer you some of the latter?” I paused, and added, “It’ll warm you up.”
I studied his face. To my dissatisfaction, Dylan was impossible to read.
Relenting, he replied, “Okay. A glass couldn’t hurt.”
I nodded eagerly, too eagerly. He parked the car and turned it off. We walked up the red brick garden path to the front of my house. I fumbled the keys nervously in my hand, his hulking body close behind me. Every ounce of my flesh wanted to yank him closer, press him up against my ass, and — no, I still wasn’t convinced this was a good idea.
I forced my mind to stop providing bountiful images of what could come next. Instead, I supplied for myself all the reasons this couldn’t happen, running through them like roll call.
His wife had died recently. He was probably a mess.
I’d been cheated on by a total cad and was also probably a mess.
He was the police officer on my case.
I repeated the reasons like a mantra, but I still couldn’t shrug off the attraction. It was affixed to the base of my skull and emanated erotic vibrations throughout my body. Fuck.
And besides all the arguments against our coupling, what if it turned out to be perfect, absolutely, undeniably perfect? Was any barrier in the world important if we had the real deal?
“Come on in,” I said shakily, opening the door wide to let him pass by me.
“Thanks,” he replied, and scooted in, his exposed arms pale from the cold.
The house was all mucked up, but he knew that from last night. Somehow, we’d already acquired the comfort and familiarity of intimate friends, because here I was, not even worried about the mountain of dishes in my sink or the overflowing garbage.
“It’s a lovely home,” Dylan said.
I grinned. “Don’t be polite, it’s a shithole right now.”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t see it in the dark before, but now, with the lights on — I think it’s got character.”
I conceded that point, the walls were covered in various posters and trinkets, pieces of art made by friends back home, throw pillows from flea markets. When I’d moved here, I’d packed up my whole life. Any less would’ve meant I wasn’t really committed to the move. And while I was pleased with my decorations, I was less than pleased with my cleanliness.
“It feels like you,” Dylan added. “Complicated. Full of surprises.”
I blushed at this description. It was strangely tender. I broke the moment.
“Whiskey?”
“If you don’t mind,” he returned.
I moved to the well-equipped kitchen to pour us two glasses. “Hey,” I called across the room. “You can put some vinyl on. There’s a stack in the corner.”
“Really?” he said with a grin.
I twisted over my shoulder and shot him a grin. “Yeah, really.”
I reached for the top shelf — only the good whiskey for this man — as he sifted through my collection.
“Damn,” he said so quietly that it might have been to himself. “You’ve got good taste.”
Pouring the whiskey into two tumblers, I called back, “I do?”
“The Doors, Bowie, Queen… you’ve got all the classics.”
Glasses safely in hand, I moved across the room, around the plump couch and plain coffee table, to the shelving unit where he sat. He was on his knees, eagerly burrowing through the stack, moving from rock to folk and back down to rock. Despite being a grown man, he struck me as remarkably similar to a little boy on Christmas.
I passed him a glass. “Here. Drink up.”
He chuckled, and replied, “Gladly.”
He downed the drink in a single large gulp, and my mouth dropped open.
“Where’d you learn how to do that?” I asked in amazement.
“I was born with whiskey in my veins. It’s mother’s milk.”
I couldn’t help it, a giggle escaped my mouth. “You’re such a country boy, you know that?”
He raised an eyebrow, and smirked. “I know that, and I’m damn well proud of it. What about you, city girl? You taking to small-town living?”
A challenge underpinned his words, one which I accepted. I tossed back my own glass of whiskey and replied, “Like a fish to water.”
Our eyes met, and I watched his slowly travel from our locked gaze down to the mountains of my lips, over the length of my neck, coming to rest around my breasts. With a clearing of his throat, he reaffixed those roving eyes to my own.
“Yes,” he said throatily. “I reckon you have.”
I averted my gaze, his stare had grown so hot it threatened to burn me.
“So,” I offered, veering off into calmer waters. “You picked out a record?”
“Pour us some more whiskey,” he instructed, “and I’ll put it on.”
I obliged, moving back into the kitchen to grab the liter of liquid. I was about to dispense some more whiskey into the glasses, when I elected to streamline the process. I grabbed the whole bottle and returned to the living room.
Lifting it to my lips, I threw back a swig and held it out to Dylan, who was carefully placing a record onto the player. Without moving his eyes from the task at hand, he reached, palmed the bottle and took a drink.
“You ready?” he asked mischievously. His hand hovered over the machine.
“Always.”
He hit play, and I only needed two meters to recognize the tune.
“Lou Reed,” I breathed. “Transformer. It’s my favorite.”
“Really? Mine too.”
Dylan stood, and I helped myself to another serving of whiskey, after which I was confident enough to strip off my thin sweater, revealing only an abbreviated white tank top beneath. The spaghetti straps were so thin that they couldn’t conceal a bra, so I simply wasn’t wearing one. The fabric hugged every inch of my torso and breast and was just sheer enough to suggest the hint of my nipples.
He sucked in a breath at the sight, and immediately took a step back. Good. He was feeling it, the pull, as powerfully as I was. We were on even ground, squaring off in this sexual pas de deux.
He regained his composure and asked, “Care to dance?”
I only had time to manage a slight nod of my head before he whisked me off my feet — literally. He spun me through the air, twirling and dipping me along the way. We shimmied and hollered, keeping time with Lou Reed and the low intonations of the vinyl. I shook my hair out, let it fall in front of my eyes, and kicked my feet up over and over. I was freer than I’d ever been before.
And Dylan… the man knew how to move. His hips gyrated and swung madly, carving a path for him throughout the small room. Those arms flexed, and his shirt rode up so that I could see every ab working to keep the beat. I licked my lips, wondering what his sweat would taste like. Would it be as delicious as the woodsy scent that lingered on his jacket?
“You’re a good dancer!” he shouted over the music.
“You’re not bad either!”
Grinning fiercely, he two-stepped his way back over to me and took me in his arms. In time with “Take a Walk on the Wild Side,” he lifted me up once more, intending to spin me across the floor. His foot must have caught on some discarded boot or fortunately placed cushion, because just as the song reached its crescendo, we tumbled down, rolling over one another until at last we hitched up against the foot of the couch.
Dazed, I looked up, and found Dylan’s face hovering over mine. Before I could figure out what I was doing, or if I should really be doing it, I reached up and touched his face. He lowered it willingly, and all at once my mouth was on his and we were kissing.