He showed up before noon with a brown paper bag and two sweating iced teas.
“There are restaurants all around,” she said, flipping the sign to CLOSED and locking the gallery door. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t want to share you with a noisy lunch crowd.”
Erica might have gawked a little. If that was a line, it was romantic as hell and sent a warm swoop through her belly.
“I thought Rangers were supposed to be tough as nails, not a…” She searched for the right word. Her brain unhelpfully offered teddy bear, which he probably wouldn’t appreciate.
A slow, devastating smile tugged at his lips. “What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart,” he replied, as though he’d read her mind. “But don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my badass Ranger reputation.”
Heat curled through her again.
They walked the two blocks to the small, shaded park. A stone fountain burbled, the air carried the sweetness of summer flowers, and cicadas buzzed in the trees. A sprawling live oakshaded half the space. They found an empty bench tucked beneath it.
He spread a napkin between them and unpacked the bag. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so, there’s turkey and Swiss on rye, or ham and cheddar on Italian.”
“You choose. I like either.”
“Girlie turkey it is,” he teased.
She raised a brow but took the sandwich he offered, smiling as she unwrapped the deli paper. They sat shoulder to shoulder, eating, enjoying the day, the park, and each other’s company. Erica realized she wasn’t bracing.
She’d never had enough normalcy to know what it felt like to let her guard down with a man. And she liked it. She liked it a lot.
He asked about her painting class. She told him about her seventy-two-year-old student who showed real promise but painted every sunset purple. He laughed, actually listening.
When the conversation lagged, the silence stayed easy. She hated to, but brought up the case, something not so easy.
“Any sign of a leak?”
He didn’t sugarcoat it. “I’ve reviewed the report trail twice. If someone talked, they were careful.”
“If?” She folded her napkin neatly. “You still think it’s the reporter connecting dots?”
“Most likely.” He took a long sip of tea. “The article’s noise, but it can attract the wrong kind of attention.”
“That’s not reassuring.” Not much was, except Vince.
“It’s not,” he agreed. “Are you done?”
“Yes, thank you again for lunch.”
“I usually eat on the run or at my desk with O’Reilly as company. So believe me, it was my pleasure.” He gathered the trash, making a perfect three-point swish into the nearby trash can.
“Let’s walk for a bit.” He stood and offered her his hand.
She took it, her fingers fitting into his automatically. That was what surprised her. Not the touch but how effortless it was with him.
When they reached her block, he slowed.
“I’ll pick you up for the cookout at one,” he said. “Dress cool. McNabb’s yard has shade, but it’s July in Texas.”
She glanced up at him. “You still want me to come?”
He stopped, turning fully toward her. “You could use a distraction.”
“I think you may need it more than me.”
