I reach up to touch my lips when I realize I’m wearing a real smile for the first time in what feels like forever. A wave of guilt gnaws at my chest, causing the smile to drop just as unexpectedly as it arrived.
“So how do we do this?” Landry proves just how much he sees when he nudges my shoulder with his, pushing close enough to distract me from my darkening thoughts of guilt for feeling a moment of joy.
“Ahh…” I stammer for a second, looking around the kitchen before showing him how I make the wraps.
CHAPTER 9
Boone
The minute I saw Harlyn holding open the front door for me, I should have made an excuse to leave then taken the first flight back to D.C., but that was never going to happen. Gone were the fitted jeans from earlier, and they were replaced with a pair of pink linen pants that are tucked in at her waist but loose everywhere else. Her white, short-sleeved shirt is fitted, hugging the curves of her breasts. Unsurprisingly, I found the relaxed look even more appealing.
I knew I was blurring the lines when I asked her if she’d eaten yet, even knew it was stupid considering how attracted I am to her, but I did it anyway. I would do it again, and that tells me everything I need to know about how I feel about getting to know Harlyn Wade. Without even knowing much about her, she is worth the effort, unlike anyone I’ve met in a long time.
This isn’t even a first date, yet it’s the most intimate dinner I’ve ever had. Hell, this could be one of the best dates I’ve everhad, and that’s saying something considering the reason I’m here is still hanging over us.
I can’t help but notice the way her eyes keep darting to the folder I purposely left on the kitchen island when we moved to the table near the windows, but I find the way her gaze lingers on me just as telling. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s had to remind herself more than once, just like I have, that this isn’t just a social call. As if to prove my point, she says, “So, Special Agent Landry?—”
“Boone, call me Boone,” I interject. She eases back into the chair. It could be seen as a sign she’s distancing herself from me, but I’m not taking it as one. “You were saying?” I prompt.
Harlyn’s tongue is barely visible as she wets the corner of her lip. “Where are you from?”
“North Carolina.”
Her head tilts just a tiny bit. “You don’t have an accent.”
“I haven’t been back home in a while, but it catches up to me occasionally. What about you? I don’t hear much of a Texas twang.”
“You got me there. We grew up…Igrew up in the city. There isn’t much of a twang around Austin,” she clarifies. I never got hung up on the dynamics of twin relationships. They are not as common in real criminal cases as they would have you believe on television, but I imagine it comes with just as many challenges as it does benefits. Creating a separate identity is clearly one she may have struggled with.
“I did not grow up in the city.” I move to rise from the seat, reaching for her mostly empty plate before I even grab mine.
“Where did you grow up?” She shifts as if she’s going to start helping clean the table too, but I lay my hand over hers, already gripping the spoon we used to spread the garlicky sauce she made for the sandwiches.
When she stops breathing for a second, I remove my hand from hers and tell her, “I’ve got it. I grew up in Banner Elk.”
“Is that close to Myrtle Beach?”
I chuckle. “About as far away as you can get and still be in North Carolina.” It isn’t really the farthest city from the well-known beach, not that I know of anyway, but it sure did feel like it when I was young. “It’s pretty close to Tennessee really.”
I turn on the water to rinse our plates, and this time when she gets up to meander closer, I don’t try to stop her. “You really don’t have to do that.” She sounds unsure, maybe even a little shy. I glance over my shoulder to find her on the other side of the island that separates the kitchen from the rest of the room. Closer, but not as close as I would like.
“It wouldn’t be fair if I let you cook and clean. Besides” —I pull open the dishwasher next to the sink to load the rinsed dishes inside— “it’s not like I’m doing much, and bad guests don’t get invited back.”
She makes an amused sound. “Does that mean you’re leaving the pans for me?” She places the lid on the few remaining cucumbers slices and the sauce she must have brought over from the table.
“I’m not foolish enough to mess with a woman’s pans.” I raise my hands in surrender while leaning my ass against the counter near the sink after closing the dishwasher. “My mother would have skinned me for ever touching her skillets.”
“They aren’t mine. I’m just renting this place for now, but that’s a pretty smart way of getting out of doing the washing,” she agrees, placing the leftover containers into the fridge.
I pick up on something she said and ask her about it. “For now?”
She looks over at me then lowers her gaze and shrugs her shoulders. I’m not one to drop the lead so I prod again. “Are you saying you’re thinking about making it more long term?”
“Thinking about it,” she admits, but I’m still not satisfied. I do have to admit the thought of her living here and not all the way in Texas where her sister was murdered appeals to me for selfish reasons. Both states are just a flight away, but there’s no ignoring the fact that Michigan is a hell of a lot closer to D.C. than Texas is. “I need a change,” she murmurs reluctantly.
“I can see the appeal.”
“I wish Livy could.” She leans her hip against the island. It’s the first time since she’s invited me here that she seems comfortable enough not to place an object between us like the table or island. I take it as a good sign that she’s opening up to me in more than one way, considering the topic.
