I kept my back to her as I put things away, needing some space to pull myself together. I’d been a soldier, a cop, a police chief. I’d faced armed suspects and tough officials. Discipline was second nature. So why did one woman in a towel have me acting like a teenager?
“I got you some clothes. Nothing fancy. T-shirts, sweatpants. Figured they’d be too big, but something you could lounge in. There’s a pack of new underwear, too. A toothbrush and some, uh, feminine products. Just in case.”
“You bought me feminine products?” Her voice held amusement.
“Yeah, the convenience store had those little travel packs,” I explained.
When she didn’t respond, I turned to look at her. The look on Nia’s face was thoughtful as she studied me.
“That was considerate. I’ve never had a man do that for me. Thank you.”
I nodded once, then turned back to the groceries. “You’re welcome. I need to shower, too, but I can get a pot of coffee started.”
“Coffee sounds amazing.”
Nia watched as I moved around the kitchen, filling the coffeemaker and measuring the grounds. I was hyperaware of her nearby, just a few feet away. The kitchen felt a lot smaller with her in it.
“The clothes are in that bag,” I said, pointing to a plastic sack on the end of the counter.
“Or I could stay in this towel.”
My brows lifted, surprised by her acknowledgment of the tension between us. “Well, if you do, I might have to charge you rent for the view,” I joked.
Get it together, Ro. She’s been through hell. You’ve been through hell. This isn’t the time to be thinking with your dick.I chastised myself.
I realized my mind was full of Nia, how she looked in that towel, how different she seemed outside of protests and holding cells, and how fast she’d gone from adversary to . . . whatever this was.
This wasn’t a physical attraction clouding my judgment. It was the unexpected connection we formed during our confinement.
The coffee machine beeped its completion, pulling me from my thoughts, and I pulled a mug from the cabinet. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower. I won’t be long,” I said after pouring her a cup.
The shower called to me, offering a moment alone to get myself together. I needed to wash off the grime from the holding cell and clear my head. One thing was obvious now: Whatever was happening with Nia felt more real than anything I’d felt in a long time. That scared me almost as much as it excited me.
I headed to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let it run for a minute before stepping in. The shower spray hit my back, but it didn’t come close to washing away the image of Nia with that towel holding secrets I had no business wanting to uncover.
I adjusted the temperature to be colder, hoping to cool the heat rushing through my body. It didn’t. My mind circled back to how she’d felt sleeping against me in that holding cell, how her voice sounded when she shared her brother’s story, how herlips had tasted in that moment of darkness when everything else disappeared.
I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, but my body ignored reason. I tried to focus on everyday things. We’d both been through a lot: tear gas, detention, no sleep. Sometimes people connected in crisis, but it didn’t last in real life.
I was the chief of police, and she was an activist who routinely criticized my department. On paper, we were a bad idea, but in reality, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this drawn to someone. Everything about her challenged me: her mind, her beliefs, the way she saw past the badge to the man I tried to hide. Sometimes I forgot that the man was still here.
Cold water be damned. My body’s reaction was clear. I stopped fighting it and finished my shower. There was no point pretending anymore. Whatever was happening needed to run its course, even if it ended badly.
I dried off quickly and wrapped a towel around my waist. Vulnerability for vulnerability seemed only fair after finding her in just a towel. I brushed my teeth and exited the bathroom.
I didn’t have to go far to find her. Nia stood in my bedroom, her backside facing me as she looked through my dresser drawer. She’d wrapped her locs back up in a loose bun, exposing the elegant curve of her neck.
“Find what you needed?”
She turned. Her eyes took in my bare chest, lingering at the scar on my ribs from an old bullet wound, then trailing down to where my towel hung low on my hips. Her gaze felt like a physical touch, raising goosebumps along my skin.
“Uh, I was looking for socks.”
We stood there, just a few feet apart, both of us breathing a little harder. I took two slow steps toward her, giving her a chance to pull away if I misread the situation.
She didn’t. Instead, she welcomed me as my hands found her waist. The first kiss was careful, so different from our desperate connection in the darkness of the holding cell. Her hands came to rest on my chest, palms warm against my skin, fingers spread wide as if trying to touch as much of me as possible.
I pulled back slightly, needing to see her eyes to be certain. “Do you feel safe with me?” I asked, my question encompassing everything I needed to know.
