“Wow, the Gargoyle? Being a secret magic assassin pays good, don’t it?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s not about the money; it’s about the health benefits.”
I laughed. I mean, seriously guffawed. Sweet hells, it had been a pretty bad few days.
“Or maybe you’d rather have some time alone tonight?” he asked.
I thought about it. He was probably right; I did need time alone. But what I needed even more was to not be alone.
“Seven is great. Bring your wallet; I’m going to be hungry.”
He looked over at me, and those beautiful brown eyes sparked with bits of gold. “I think I can handle that.”
We arrived at my apartment building and he double-parked outside the front door.
“What are we going to do with all these flowers?” I asked.
“Let me take care of it.” He got out of the car, opened the back door, and gathered up all the flowers.
“A little help with the doors would be nice,” he said from somewhere in the middle of the giant bundle of flowers.
I giggled. “You look adorable, Mr. Jones.” I think the wine had done some damage. Or, I don’t know, maybe it was seeing my father’s body buried or my friend in an urn.
“Door, Beckstrom,” Zayvion growled.
“Hold on, hold on.” I jogged up the stairs and opened the front doors.
“Only three flights,” I said to Zayvion.
He grunted.
I walked up the stairs first, Zayvion silent behind me. I paused at the top of the stairs and looked down the hall. It had become a habit. A sort of dread hit my stomach every time I approached the door to my apartment. I couldn’t help but glance over at the apartment where Frank Gordon had lived. So close. Too close. I hadn’t heard anyone come to clean out his apartment yet. I wondered if he had family.
“Allie?” Zayvion said.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m fine.”
He somehow managed to sort the bouquets and free a hand. He gently touched the side of my arm. “I know,” he said.
And that, a casual acceptance of me, of maybe even all the stuff I’d been through, made me wish he had his arms around me instead of those flowers.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.” I walked down the hall, unlocked my door, and strode in like I never worried about what might be waiting, lurking for me in my home.
Zayvion took the flowers into the kitchen and set them all carefully on the counter.
“Might need some more vases,” he observed.
I came up behind him and looked around him to the sink.
“Maybe I’ll just float them all in the bathtub.” I drew back and he turned, leaning against the counter.
“If you want those flowers in the tub, you’ll have to do it yourself. I am done hauling these things around for you.”
“Aw. Being a hero is a tough job.”
“It is. Especially when it involves you.”
He tucked his thumbs in the front pocket of his jeans and smiled. Standing there, comfortable and smiling in my kitchen, smelling of roses and pine, and looking like he knew a secret I’d never find out about, he seemed… I don’t know. Strong. A little dangerous. A lot sexy.
So I leaned forward and kissed him.
He put one hand on my hip and gently cradled the curve of my jaw with his other hand. I drew my right arm around him, tucking my fingers in his back pocket.
Nice. Very nice.
I tried to put my left arm around him too, but the vase of flowers in my hand tipped and peed water on my floor.
Did I know how to do romance or what?
I righted the vase so I could turn my real attention on Zayvion.
My tongue slipped along his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth for me. Electric heat shot down my body and pooled deliciously in my belly as his tongue slid along mine, sparking desire, making my body want to stretch for him.
Oh, loves, I wanted him.
The kiss deepened as each of us explored, touched, and remembered, if even for a brief moment, what this meant, what we meant, together.
Then I pulled away. “We were going to wait for it to be real instead of just trauma sex. Isn’t that what you said?” I was hoping he would say no, that was not at all what he had said.
And even though his eyes were burning bright, and even though the heat of passion from the kiss still lingered on my lips and in my veins, Zayvion Jones said, “It’s never been just trauma sex. But yes. We’re going to wait until we both know for sure what it really is all about. And I want to make good on my promise to take you on a date. First.”
Promises, promises. “Then I guess you’ll have to leave,” I said.
“Yes, I guess I will.”
We stood there, our shoes wet from the rose piddle. Finally Zayvion pushed away from the counter and walked past me toward the door.
Damn. That man must have put on his stainless steel willpower panties this morning.
He opened the door. “See you at seven,” he said.
I leaned one shoulder in the kitchen doorway. “Don’t be late.”
Zayvion smiled. “Not a chance.”
He shut the door behind him, and I strolled over and threw the locks.
Maybe things were looking up after all.
I hadn’t been on a date for years. How did one do this? Shower first, and then I’d see if I owned any clothing that wasn’t made of denim or wool. I walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light, trying to remember if I still had that little red dress I’d bought a couple years ago. I bet that dress could burn right through Mr. Jones’ willpower.
I was still carrying the vase of roses. It was out of water, so I tipped it under the spigot and turned on the water.
I looked up into the mirror. And saw my father’s gaze looking back at me through my eyes.
Acknowledgments
I am so grateful for all the help I received while writing this book.
Thank you to my wonderful agent, Miriam Kriss, for your unflagging excitement and support. My deepest gratitude also to my editor, Anne Sowards, who took the time to call and talk with me about the book. Though you may not know it, in that one hour you showed me a new way to approach writing not only this novel, but many novels yet to come. A big thank-you also to assistant editor Cameron Dufty, designer Ray Lundgren, and artist Larry Rostant. You made this book shine.
I am lucky to have the best, most supportive, and most persistent first readers in the world. Thank you, Dean Woods, for always asking when I’ll have something for you to read and following up with such insightful questions. You are brilliant. Thank you, Dejsha Knight, for being there for me from the very first story. I wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you, Dianna Rodgers, for your friendship, and for giving such honest feedback, even on short deadlines. Thank you, Sharon Thompson, for all your encouragement, support, and advice. And thank you to Deanne Hicks for everything. I love you, girl.
