Page 43 of Flint’s Strike

I give Belle one last scritch and take a step back. “I should let you get to it. Good to see you again, Chief Stone. Ma’am.”

They head for the double doors, Belle trotting along next to them.

“Belle liked you.” Parker favors her left leg a little more now, and I wonder if she was masking it really well earlier or if she’s reaching her limit for the day. I’m tempted to tell her to sit down, but I doubt she’d take kindly to being handled.

“Most dogs do. I think it comes with the job. Well, came with the job. Though, can’t say I’ve ever met a Dalmatian.”

That earns me a smile. Warm, real, and unforgettable. The kind of smile I’ll see in my dreams tonight. I hope. “I distinctly remember tellin’ you not to leave the conference room.”

“You said, ‘Don’t leave.’ I didn’t set one foot outside the building. I know how to take orders, Captain.”

Another grin. “Fair enough. Wednesdays are usually girls’ night. Grace is fine movin’ it to Friday, but I have to check with Emi and Isabel. Can I get back to you on that dinner?”

“Depends.” I hook my thumbs into the belt loops of my Wranglers. “Are you still deciding if? Or just when?”

“When.” Her cheeks take on a pink hue, and she stares down at her boots for a breath before meeting my gaze again. “It’s been a long day. If we tried tonight…”

“You’re hurtin’. Are you okay to drive? I don’t mind takin’ you home again.”

She shoots me a look that clearly says that’s off the table. Yet her voice roughens, and she leans close enough for me to get another whiff of her shampoo. “Driving ain’t the issue. Hell, dinner isn’t even the issue. It’s what may—or may not—happen after.”

Fuck.

Before I can will even a single drop of blood away from my dick and back to my brain, Parker chuckles. “Pick your jaw up off the floor, Flint. And get out of here. I’m gonna lock up the conference room. We’ll pick back up in the morning.”

I watch her walk away, hips swaying despite the limp, and wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

Chapter Sixteen

Eliot

It’s a little after seven when I let myself in the front door. The whole drive home, I thought about Parker. About her smile. The way she laughs when she forgets she’s supposed to be tough.

The quiet surrounds me in a way it hasn’t before. Half a day in a conference room with two people who played off one another with both jokes and some of the best damn crime scene analysis I’ve seen in a long time, and I’m ruined for silence.

That’s gonna be a problem.

I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and stare into the living room that oddly feels smaller than it did this morning. This place isn’t much. One bedroom. The main room barely holds the dining table I use for jigsaw puzzles, a couch, TV, and two end tables. Most days, it’s enough. Easy to keep clean, even when my body reminds me some injuries never fully heal.

Tonight, it feels empty.

The navy blue blanket is draped over the arm of the couch. Another few hours and it’ll be done. Maybe tomorrow. Thursday at the latest.

Fuck. That means I’ll have to bring the new yarn to Friday’s knitting circle. Marlene will be insufferably pleased with herself.

Pulling out my phone, I snap a photo of the blanket and, before I can talk myself out of it, text it to Parker.

The instant I hit send, I realize what’s behind the blanket. The yarn Marlene picked out. Sunflower yellow. Surface-of-the-sun orange. Neon green. A purple so bright it can probably be seen from space.

I watch the screen for a few seconds, hoping she’ll reply.

For fuck’s sake. She might not even be home yet.

I’ve almost talked myself into setting the damn thing down, when the three dots dance at the bottom of the screen.

That’s impressive. How long did it take?

A few weeks.