Dungar transferred the steaks to plates, adding potatoes.
“The steak is medium-rare,” he said, handing me one. “As requested.”
“You remembered.” I accepted the plate, our fingers brushing.
“I remember everything about you.” The simplestatement, delivered as if it was the most obvious fact in the world, stole my breath.
We ate at the outdoor table, the setting sun warming our backs. Dungar had prepared a salad to accompany the steaks, each ingredient cut into identically sized pieces. The meal was delicious, the steak cooked exactly as I liked it.
“This is amazing,” I said between bites. “For someone who just learned to grill, you’re a natural.”
“I follow instructions well. Though I may have overcooked yours slightly. The center should be exactly 135 degrees for true medium-rare.”
“I love it.” I reached out to touch his hand lying on the table beside my plate. “Really.”
He turned his palm up, capturing my fingers in his. “I wanted it to be special, because you deserve everything wonderful.”
No one had ever looked at me the way Dungar did, like I was something precious, something worth preserving. It terrified me how much I wanted to believe him, how easy it would be to let myself fall completely for this meticulous, gentle giant of an orc who bought grills because I mentioned liking the taste of food cooked over flames.
Later, we cleaned up together, falling into the same rhythm we’d established. I washed while he dried, each dish placed in its exact spot in the cabinets. When our hands accidentally touched beneath the water, neither of us pulled away.
“Dungar,” I said softly when we’dfinished.
He leaned toward me, his dark eyes reflecting the kitchen lights. “Yes?”
Words caught in my throat, questions about what was happening between us, fears about what it might mean, hopes I barely dared let myself dwell on. Instead, I stretched up on my toes and pressed my lips to his.
He responded right away, one hand coming up to cup my face while the other settled at the back of my waist. The kiss felt like a question at first. When I deepened it, parting my lips to invite him in, he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me.
We broke apart, both breathing hard.
“I should finish putting away the dishes,” he said, though he made no move to let me go.
“They can wait.” I leaned into him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against mine.
His eyes darkened. “Riley…”
Whatever he might have said was lost when his phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the moment. He reluctantly released me to answer it, his expression shifting from tender to professional as he listened to whoever was on the other end.
“Understood. We’ll handle it first thing tomorrow.” He ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “That was Ruugar. They’ve found evidence of another intrusion at the luminook pens.”
Reality crashed back, reminding me why I couldn’t afford to get lost in whatever was building between us. “Same pattern?”
He nodded. “We’ll need to move quickly.”
Just like that, the moment was gone, replaced by the familiar tension of an investigation. But as we finished putting away the dishes, the memory of his lips on mine lingered, a ghost of possibility I couldn’t quite shake.
Morning light streamedthrough the kitchen windows as I sipped my coffee, watching Dungar organize his notes from yesterday’s surveillance.
“So Mary and Ava had tea together at the saloon,” he said, consulting one of the pages. “Then Mary left town in her truck while Ava returned to her room at the hotel.”
I nodded, setting my mug on the coaster. “They appeared friendly but not particularly secretive. Their conversation seemed casual from what I could observe through the window.”
“Yet Joyce’s phone call was anything but casual.” Dungar frowned, tapping his pen against his notepad exactly three times. “‘Everything’s proceeding as planned’ and ‘Tomorrow night is our best window’ doesn’t sound innocent.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I pushed my hair back from my face. “But we still can’t confirm they’re working together or exactly what they’re planning.”
Dungar’s methodical mind had already mapped out the connections on a chart he’d created last night after I’d gone to bed. Three names—Mary, Ava, Joyce—each with bullet points of suspicious activities beneath them, linked by red lines indicating possible collaborations.
