I led her to my car, unlocking it and holding the passenger door open. She slid in with exaggerated grace, grinning up at me. “Such a gentleman.”
“Who are you going out with that they won’t even open the door for you?” I asked once I got behind the steering wheel.
“Not gentlemen, obviously.” She buckled her seatbelt, settling into the seat with a contented sigh. “I should really raise my standards.”
The engine rumbled to life, and I pulled out of the parking lot. The city lights blurred past us, amber and white, smearing into long, muted streaks. Detective Sawyer seemed content to sit in silence while she looked out the window, watching the urban landscape give way to something darker, more wooded, as we headed toward the outskirts.
The air between us felt different now, charged with something unspoken, something that made my hands tighten ever so slightly on the steering wheel. I was acutely aware of her presence beside me—the way she shifted in her seat to face me more fully.
“Where are we going exactly?”
“My house.”
Detective Sawyer gave a small hum in response.
The trees grew thicker as we drove, the road narrowing, streetlights becoming fewer and farther between until we were driving through darkness punctuated only by my headlights. The isolation should have felt ominous, I suppose, but insteadit felt oddly peaceful, like we were the only two people awake in the world. We turned onto the private road that led to my house, the trees opening up slightly to reveal the structure ahead.
Detective Sawyer leaned forward, looking through the windshield, taking it all in. The house was modest by most standards—two-story, understated and practical, with clean lines and dark siding that helped it blend into the surrounding trees.
“You live in the middle of the woods!” Detective Sawyer seemed genuinely delighted by the discovery. “Of course you do. This makes so much sense.”
“Does it?”
“Absolutely. It’s very you,” she told me as she got out of the car. “Do you chop your own firewood too? Please tell me you chop your own firewood.”
“I’ve been known to do so, on occasion.”
“Perfect. That’s just perfect.” She was laughing now, rubbing her hands together to chase away the cold.
I unlocked the front door and held it open, gesturing her inside.
She stepped into the entryway, her eyes immediately scanning the space. I watched her take it all in—the hardwood floors, the minimalist furniture, the bookshelves lining the walls of the living room visible through the archway. Everything was ordered and clean, chosen for function over form.
“You can take your jacket off,” I said, shrugging out of my own and hanging it on the hook by the door. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She did, draping it over the back of a nearby chair as she continued her exploration with unabashed curiosity. Shedrifted toward the bookshelves, running her fingers along the spines. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding about the reading. This is like a personal library.”
“I’ve been collecting for a while.”
Ever since I was a child, really. It was a rare indulgence, the one area where I allowed myself excess.
“I can see that.” She pulled out a volume, examining it before carefully putting it back in its place.
“Let me get you something to drink,” I said, moving toward the kitchen.
She followed after me, her footsteps soft on the hardwood floor. I pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water, acutely aware of the way she’d leaned against the counter to observe me. I handed her the glass, and she took it with a small smile, her fingers brushing mine.
“You really are a gentleman, aren’t you?” She hummed softly, as if pleased by the idea. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. There was heat in them, unmistakable now. The drive had sobered her up, burned away the slight buzz, leaving only intention.
She set the glass down on the counter and stepped closer. “Tell me, Doctor Hayes,” she said softly, her voice taking on a different quality—lower, more intimate. “Are you going to keep being a gentleman, or are you going to kiss me again?”
I reached for her, and this time there was no hesitation, no question hovering between us. I pulled her close and she came willingly, her hands sliding up my chest to curl into my shirt. The kiss was deeper than before, more urgent, her mouth hot against mine. She tasted like whiskey and want, and when she made a small sound in the back of her throat, something in me unraveled completely.
My hands found her waist, pulling her flush against me until there was no space left between us. She responded by pressing even closer, one hand moving to tangle in my hair, tugging slightly, kissing me like it was a competition she intended to win.
She broke away just long enough to murmur against my lips, “Bedroom?”
“Upstairs.”
