“Sunday.”
Oh good.Not a workday then.It’s hard to keep track, especially this week—I’ve been chasing a hospital administrator round in circles.Technically, they aren’t refusing an interview, which would give credence to the wrongful death suit I’m investigating.No, they’ve agreed to be interviewed, but it might as well be set for August 41st because the rain checks, delays, postponements are endless.
I sigh and try to melt into Sterling.
“No working,” I say.
“What isn’t?”
“You.I don’t care what you’re working on.I’m not letting you go.”
He shuffles in place, and I hear the beautiful sound of coffee being poured in to two mugs.He’s so good to me.
Sterling and coffee—there’s nothing better.
“Don’t worry; work is the last thing on the agenda.I was hoping to take you out.”
“Oh?”
Usually, our date nights consist of work and takeout.I’m not complaining—I love any time I spend with Sterling—but it’ll be nice to try something new.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he says, tucking my hair behind my ear.“You’re the one I want to share it with.”
I let my forehead fall to his chest.It’s too early for him to attack my heart like this; I haven’t even had coffee yet.What hope do I have to respond?The best I’ve got is the lovesick sound that squeezes out of me, that I hope conveys the swell ofyou’re amazing, andevery day I know you, I love you a little bit more, andI never knew I could feel so much for one person and not explode.
“There’s something else.”He brings his hands to my cheeks, tilting my head back until our eyes meet.He’s using the smile he knows makes me speechless.“I think I should let you know that I love you.”
I close my eyes on a groan.“Obviously, I love you, too, but tell me again after coffee.”
He’s still smiling as he kisses me.
* * *
It is a beautiful day.It’s the sort of day where anything might be possible.
It’s also possible I’m talking out of my butt because my vision is completely fogged over with Sterling-itis.
We end up across town, and I’m two blocks into explaining exactly why Alice’s cinnamon rolls have no equal when I hear music.A crowd has gathered up ahead, surrounding two guitarists—a guy with long legs and tattoos and a young woman with her hair in a fantastic braid.They’re laughing and battling while the crowd cheers them on.
I recognize the guy as my neighbor Lucky.
He looks good.Scruff dusts his jaw, and his hair is half tied back.A sleeveless shirt and tight pants put his fantastic body on display.He’s like a sexy pirate.
I’m so entranced by their playing that it takes me a second to realize Sterling’s stopped moving.He’s staring at Lucky with a look I recognize.
One I’ve seen directed at me.
One of the ways we differ is that Sterling prefers an organized attack.He’s sly—don’t get me wrong—but he never coddles, and he rarely softens the blow when it comes.
I prefer the softer approach.Less planned, more emotive.People are far more willing to open up than you expect, as long as you give them a chance.It just takes a little time.
For this though, I’m going to need to adopt Sterling’s way.
“Tell me about him.”
Learning to interpret Sterling’s restraint gets a heck of a lot easier once you understand that he’s hiding a tender, aching heart underneath all that grumpiness.So, it doesn’t surprise me when that’s where his story starts.
“I was at a loss after my parents died.Lucky was the first bright spot in a very angry darkness and a reminder of everything I wanted to fight for.Even after we lost touch, I would check in on him, saw his career grow and when he moved here.”
