“Fox, actually.” I wait for the frown I usually receive when I give someone my first name, but he just tilts his head. “Or Thatcher’s fine.”
“Is it?”
I ignore the question in his voice. It’s a bit early in our conversation for him to be insinuating shit, but here we are.
“Gonna invite me in, or are you planning to let me freeze to death on your porch?” I keep my voice neutral, fighting the urge to shove past him. It’s not just the cold—I can tell he’s hiding something. It’s in his posture, the way his eyes flicker over me to note the lack of badge, gun, hat.
I need to know what.
“No badge. Is it safe to assume this is a social call?” He steps aside in a silent invitation for me to enter.
The house is warm, richly textured, but sparse. A fire crackles in the living room. Art on the walls that I’m sure has deep meaning to someone who gives a shit.
“Am I to assume you’re going camping?”
I have to ask, because the picnic basket is throwing me off. If it weren’t for that odd detail, no one could convince me Rookewasn’t planning on leaving the state. But who the fuck would pack a picnic basket for a skip?
There’re two bottles of wine peeking out under a red-and-white plaid blanket and everything.
“I usually spend Thanksgiving break in Sonoma, but the snow caught me.” Rooke is partially hidden by the fridge door, his voice muffled.
I give the living area another thorough scan.
That’s when I spot the smudges by the sliding door. Someone tracked mud all the way to the fireplace. I move closer, making as if I’m warming myself on the gas flames dancing over the pebbles.
“Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t come over last night. I’d have been snowed in with you.” There are a few darker splotches on the carpet, near the coffee table. I step closer, craning to make out if it’s more mud, or?—
“I’d have slept on the couch like a gentleman,” says a voice right behind me.
I turn, bracing myself, but Rooke doesn’t attack me…he hands me an ice cold beer. “Knew I still had a six-pack somewhere.”
When I don’t take the bottle immediately, he hesitates, turning his head to side-eye me. “Unless…youarehere on official business?”
It’s a test, but it’s so crude it’s more an insult than anything else. “Nope.” I take the beer, twisting off the lid. “One hundred percent off duty.”
“Then I assume everything we discuss is off the record?”
I chug at the beer, letting its iciness force reason back into my mind. Rooke is standing close enough that I can smell something musky on him.
Like sex.
If he were going camping, wouldn’t he freshen up first? He hasn’t shaved, possibly hasn’t showered since someone left their cum on him.
I make it obvious that I’m looking around. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
Rooke frowns as he takes a small sip of beer. “What would you be interrupting, Fox?”
Fucking ‘ell.
Why did I give him my first name? The way he says it makes it sound likeI’mthe one who left my cum on him.
“The Land Rover outside.”
Rooke gives me a puzzled smile. “It’s mine.”
He takes another sip, then moves to go sit on the sofa, legs splayed. “Which you would have assumed…if you hadn’t already run my plates.”
I chuckle disarmingly, giving him a shrug. “Awkward.”
