Cara
True to his word, Theo shows up the next morning with a plant.
“It’s a pothos,” he says, holding out a small pot with trailing green leaves. “Nearly impossible to kill. Even for you.”
“I resent that.” I take the pot anyway, examining the heart-shaped leaves. “I’ve kept a cat alive for six years.”
“Mr. Darcy feeds himself when you forget. Plants don’t have that option.”
He’s not wrong. I step back to let him in, and Grandma materializes from the kitchen like she has a sixth sense for visitors. Specifically, alpha visitors.
“Theodore Holt.” She beams at him. “Is that one of your pothos? I’ve got three of those in the sunroom. They’re taking over.”
“That’s what they do, Mrs. Donovan.” He grins, that golden retriever warmth radiating off him. “If you ever need them trimmed back, just say the word.”
“Such a good boy.” Grandma pats his cheek like he’s twelve, then gives me a look heavy with meaning. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Grandma—”
She’s already gone, humming something that sounds suspiciously like a wedding march.
“She’s not subtle,” Theo observes.
“She’s never been subtle a day in her life.” I set the pothos on the windowsill, angling it toward the light the way he taught me. “Thank you. For this. And for yesterday.”
“Yesterday was...” He trails off, cheeks going pink. “Yeah. Yesterday was good.”
Good doesn’t begin to cover it. I close the distance between us and slide my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his chest. He wraps around me immediately, chin resting on top of my head, and I breathe him in—pine and earth and that warm cedar smell that’s become my new favorite thing.
“I missed you,” I murmur into his shirt. “It’s been twelve hours and I missed you.”
“Twelve hours is too long.” His voice is soft. “I almost texted you at three in the morning.”
“You should have.”
“You needed sleep.” He pulls back just enough to cup my face, tilting it up. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
He kisses me properly—slow and warm, tasting like coffee and something sweet. When we finally break apart, we’re both a little breathless.
“I should go,” he says, even though his hands are still on my waist and he’s making no move to leave. “I’ve got a consultation at ten. But I’ll text you later?”
“You’d better.”
He kisses me again—quicker this time, but no less thorough—and then he’s gone, leaving me standing in Grandma’s living room with a plant I’ll probably kill and a heart that’s too full to hold.
Two dates down. Twelve hundred dollars well spent.
One brooding deputy to go.
Nate doesn’t text.
I check my phone constantly that first day, telling myself I’m not checking. I’m just... looking at the screen. For other reasons. Unrelated reasons.
By day two, I’ve stopped pretending.
Cara:Hey. It’s Cara. Theo gave me your number. I believe you owe me a date.
