I’m peering into the frosted pane of glass of the door when it’s yanked open and I’m met with a very shirtless Officer Lincoln Decker.
I swallow, my cheeks flushing with heat, and stagger back. Jesus fucking Christ.
Apparently Decker takes just as much care with his body as he does his front lawn.
Broad, muscular shoulders taper into a lean, defined waist. Deep grooves perfectly contour his stomach and slice down his lower abdomen into a V that disappears into the jeans hanging lazily on his hips. Along with the faint trail of hair leading from his belly button to his waistband. And his skin is a beautiful shade of sun-kissed bronze, like maybe when he mows his lawn, he does it without his shirt on.
God. I hope he does everything without his shirt on.
It’s his chest, though, that I can’t stop staring at. Like the rest of him, it’s all hard muscle, but his skin is marked with a thick scar that carves a path from the spot where his collarbones meet to where his sternum ends. From the accident, I assume. And I don’t miss the small tattoo on his left rib that readsEmily.
“Uh. H-hey Linc,” I stammer.Never let ’em see you sweat.But I think Iamsweating. I can’t help it. Decker is fucking hot. Like. Stupid hot.
His eyes immediately narrow. “What the hell you doing here, Grace?”
“Um,” I say, desperately trying to drag my attention back up to his face. Focus.
“Gracie?”
“Yes? Oh. Right.” I give my head a shake, snapping out of it, and step inside without being invited. “I was hoping we could have a little chat.”
“Sure, yeah,” he bites as he backs away. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks,” I call over my shoulder as I show myself into his kitchen. It’s nice. Clean and masculine. A lot of black and greys and sleek lines. “Didn’t expect you to be living at your dad’s old place.”
He slams the door. “Didn’t expectyouhere at all.”
Spinning, I take in his disheveled hair, the sleep still clinging to his face. “Didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Yes, actually. So you better have a damn good reason for barging into my house at”—he pats his pants pockets and lets out an exasperated sigh—“what fucking time is it?”
“Just after eleven.” I give him my most winning smile.
“I worked night shift last night.”
“I know.” I cross my arms over my chest. “We spent some time together. Forget about me already?”
“How you doing with all that?” He surveys my cheek. It’s tinged purple despite the pile of makeup I slathered over it this morning. “The thing with Murphy was?—”
“Already forgotten,” I say with enough force to hopefully end the conversation. I don’t want to think about what could have happened. The hands on me. The cuffs grinding against my bones. My complete helplessness. Helpless isn’t a feeling I’m comfortable with.
Decker rubs his hand down his face. “Right. Well, what I meant, is I only just got to bed. So much as I appreciate the visit?—”
“Can you make coffee?” I ask as I step deeper into the house.
Axe’s late-night questioning might not have been as violent as the interrogation at the police station, but it wasn’t exactlycomfortable either. And it was exhausting. It was close to five a.m. by the time I got to bed, and sleep didn’t come easy once my head hit the pillow.
When Decker doesn’t move, I say, “I like it on the stronger side.”
He closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. When he opens them, he gives me a very tight, forced smile. Then he turns and pulls open a cupboard.
While he’s fixing the coffee, I tread into his living room, where I find more of those deep greys and charcoals mixed with dark wood furniture and brass finishings. A large flat screen is mounted to the back wall across from a big green sofa. There are no photos of family or friends, but there’s a framed retro-looking baseball jersey hanging from the wall next to his TV.
It’s very… clean. And tidy. Like Decker, I guess.
“You renovate after your dad passed?” I ask.
“Gutted it to the studs,” he says. His voice is accompanied by clings and clangs, the sound of water boiling, of coffee beans grinding. “You gonna tell me what you’ve been up to the last decade?”
