“As a rule, I’m more comfortable here.”
“I’ll bring dinner, then. I’m very skilled at picking up pizza.”
She liked pizza. “It’s not necessary.”
“Neither was letting me have soup and Bruce Willis. Consider it balancing the scales. I bet you like things nice and balanced.”
“I’m not good company.”
“You’re wrong about that. I’ll call you.”
“I haven’t given you any contact numbers.”
“Abigail.” He brushed a finger down her cheek, a gesture so casually intimate her pulse scrambled. “I’m a cop.”
She couldn’t forget that, she reminded herself. Couldn’t afford to forget that. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Do you have to remind the dog I’m a friend every time I kiss you?” he asked when she’d unlocked the door.
“Not unless I give him a different command.”
“Okay.”
This time he put his hands on her hips, stepped in to her. He took her mouth as those hands skimmed up her body, awakening nerves, kindling needs.
She did forget, for a moment. With the night air cool, his mouth warm, she forgot everything in the pleasure of the contact. Let herself take that pleasure, let her body press against his. Parted lips, a tease of tongue and teeth, that lovely liquid weight in the belly.
She wished—she wished for his flesh under her hands, his flesh sliding hot and damp against hers. Wished, wished for his hands, his mouth on her breasts, on her body. And for the good, strong thrust of him inside her.
Yearned for that primal human contact as she hadn’t allowed herself to yearn for nearly a year.
When he broke the kiss, her mind and body waged war. If she let her body win…
Then he said, “Good night, Abigail.”
“Good night.”
“Take it easy, Bert.” He stepped out, and she welcomed the cool rush of air. Then he paused, looked back at her with those changeable eyes, that easy, effortless smile. “Wine, conversation, dinner, a movie and a good-night kiss. Definitely a second date.”
“It—”
“You could look up the definition. I’d say we hit it. I’m looking forward to date number three.”
When she shut the door without a word, he grinned.
Arousal, he thought, as he grinned his way to his truck, wasn’t always just a reflex. Sometimes it was a result.
11
After his Monday meeting withthe selectmen, where he always felt a little bit like a fraud, Brooks headed over to Lindy’s with Russ Conroy. Old friend, current selectman, and just-announced mayoral candidate for the fall election.
“Mayor Conroy.”
“That’s the plan. Vote early, vote often.”
Brooks shook his head. They’d gone through school together from kindergarten right through high school graduation. They’d played ball together, with Russ on the mound, Brooks at third. They’d lied and bitched about girls, then women—and if it hadn’t been a lie on Russ’s side, they’d lost their virginity within the same week.
He’d served as best man at Russ’s wedding three years before, and stood as godfather for their daughter when Cecily was born some eighteen months later.
