“At the groundbreaking?” I stared at him over my coffee mug. “You’re crazy.”
Brent broke into a grin that didn’t bode well for my keep-it-under-wraps efforts. “What’s so terrible about making flirty eyes with him at a groundbreaking ceremony, your majesty?” he asked. “Does it lack decorum? I proposed to my wife in a cemetery.”
“Aw!” Covering my heart with my hands, I pretended to swoon. “You are so romantic!” I dropped my hands and the act. “Said no one ever.”
Though I doubted that was true. Shannon, I bet, thought he was the most romantic. And he probably agreed with her.
“Also,” I went on, “can I just point out the ridiculousness of using yourself as a model of decorum?”
He considered that for a moment. “Good point,” he conceded, then leaned his elbows on the table. “Now, if you’re done changing the subject, I’ll ask again. Are you ever going to tell Detective John Winston how you’re crushing on him, and that you write his name with little curlicue hearts in your notebook?”
I considered a range of tactics—denial, avoidance, change of subject. But why pick one when I could go with a cocktail mix? “You miss the stage, don’t you? Your moments of stand-up? Have your fun, but let the record reflect those are lies.” I stabbed the table with my finger. “Vicious lies. Because I’m not in middle school. I didn’t do that back then, and I don’t do it now.”
“I bet you do.” Brent leaned farther in. “It’s just the kind of thing you’d do—scribble a note to your secret crush in your diary, then lock it up and hide the notebook under your bed.”
I wanted to swat him with a pancake. Where was our food? “Brent,” I said, more patiently than I felt. “I have three sisters. I’d have been an idiot to put anything in writing.”
“Fair point,” he said after a beat. Then he raised a not-so-fast finger. “But you live alone now. I’m not going to believe you until you show me your diary.”
“Good luck with that, then, because, one, I don’t have a diary, and two . . . no.”
I was saved by the server arriving with our food, and we both sat back so she could put the plates on the table. I asked for a warm-up on my coffee, hoping that by the time she was done, Brent would have changed the subject. After all, John was damned attractive, but I’d had him inked in under “professional contacts.” Or maybe “colleagues.” Now that we worked out at the gym together, I’d say he’d stepped out of the “friend of a friend” column and into the “friend of mine” box, but he couldn’t be anything more than that.
“Well, I think there’s something there.” He raised his eyebrows as he stabbed his pancake. “I could just see the two of you doing coupley things together. Going on dates to the movies, hands touching in the popcorn box. Dancing . . .”
“I do not dance.” My cheeks burned, but in reality, I did. Dance, that was.
We’d danced at Sophie and Ryan’s wedding. The two single people in a party full of couples.
Pairing off was inevitable. Unavoidable. And, quite simply, irresistible.
At least, that was my memory of the night. It still brought a flush to my skin, but I held on to every detail of dancing with John as Ella Fitzgerald had crooned “Let’s Fall in Love.”
3
Mindy
Several months ago
Everything about the wedding was wonderful, from the food to the music to the fit of the tux on the man who gave the bride away. He wore it well, and he still looked good later at the reception at Mandalay Bay. He also looked happy, and that was a good look on him too.
John and I were the only ones left at our table as the dancing started and coupled-up guests took to the floor. A few songs in, Ella Fitzgerald crooned, beckoning us.
“Want to take a spin?” John asked.
“Sure.”
Once on the dance floor, he placed his arm around my waist and his hand clasped mine, his gaze intent and curious. Almost as if he was taking in all my features to remember later.
I never blushed, so the heat spreading from my chest and tingling to my fingertips had to be something else.
I didn’t know what. Stranger still, I wasn’t sure what to say, which was incredibly unlike me.
When the silence stretched longer than I could stand, I said, “You’re a pretty good dancer.”
“For a cop, you mean.” He grinned.
“For anybody,” I told him, laughing. “But you could use some work on accepting compliments.”
“Let’s turn it around, then.” He still held my gaze, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You have a lovely laugh.”
“Thank you,” I said softly, loving the sweet words, tucking them away someplace inside me so I could recall them later.
John didn’t seem desperate to fill the silence, but it pushed hard on me, pointing out this was an opportunity I shouldn’t waste. With the investigation into the Paige murder now closed, maybe this was what I’d hoped for—the chance to let John know I wanted to learn more about him. I needed to show I was interested in John Winston, the person. Because I was.
“So . . . you dance.” I laugh. “What else do you do that defies expectations?”
He seemed to appreciate the question, giving it some thought. “I’m a fan of classic crime fiction.”
I narrowed my eyes playfully. “That doesn’t really come as a surprise. You’re a detective. Of course you identify with . . . who is it? Philip Marlowe? Sam Spade?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Hmm . . . duly noted.”
He looked a little wary, but then I caught the glint of humor in his eyes. “Is it important, which one I identify with?”
“Not at all, which is, as Agatha Christie would say, what makes it so interesting.”
“Ah, I see. You’re a Miss Marple fan.”
I shook my head. “No . . . I mean, yes, I love those stories, but if I had to pick, I like them hard-boiled. It’s Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler all the way.”
“Hmm . . .” he said, echoing me. “That tracks.”
I shot him a sharp stare. “Are you saying I’m hard-boiled?”
“No.” He slowly trailed his studying gaze over my face, my blonde hair, to my shoulder. Finally, his gaze trailed along my collarbone. I could feel it like a feathering touch running up my neck to below my jaw. And I could feel, too, the depth of my wish that he’d trace a finger over my hair. “You look soft and goddamn—”
He broke off, and I held my breath. One beat, two beats . . .
They were fast, my heartbeats, and they were drowned out by the pounding rhythm coming from the speakers.
When had the music changed? And who’d put on “Mamma Mia”? Unacceptable—bring back Ella Fitzgerald, please. I hadn’t even noticed that we’d stopped at the edge of the dance floor, out of the way of people getting their dance on, and out of the figurative spotlight.
What did I look soft and goddamn like?
“You can’t leave me hanging like that, John,” I said, almost as exasperated as I pretended to be.