I hung up, reluctantly telling myself that if it really was that important, she’d call back. I crawled into bed, but instead of falling into the deep sleep I’d been dreaming of all evening, I tossed and turned, uneasy feelings churning in my belly as I mentally replayed Dusty’s message over and over.
I swear, someday I’ll learn to listen to those feelings.
Chapter 11
True to my promise, as soon as I woke up the next morning, I went straight to my drawing table and sketched out the patent-leather buckle closures for the Pretty Pretty Princess shoes. I worked straight through the morning, careful not to get any of my strawberry-frosted Pop-Tart on the drawings, before rolling them up and popping them in a mailing tube, ready to send off first thing Monday.
Those My Little Pony flip-flops were so mine.
Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I hopped in the shower, letting the hot water work out any lingering stiffness in my neck. Next to push-up bras, hot running water has got to be one of the greatest inventions known to man. I stood an eternity under the spray until finally the water started to turn tepid and my tiny bathroom was filled with so much steam even my eyelashes were beginning to frizz. I stepped out, wrapping myself in a big fluffy towel, and plopped down on my futon to treat myself to a fresh coat of toenail polish. I was halfway through the second foot when my doorbell rang. I did a heel walk, careful not to let my wet toes touch, as I called, “Coming, ” and peeked through the security hole.
Then froze.
Dark, hooded eyes, thick black hair just a little too long, T-shirt fairly painted on that “I can bench-press a Buick” body, arms crossed over his chest, causing that sleek panther to trail dangerously down one bulging bicep.
Ramirez.
I hugged my fluffy towel closer to my body, the sight of him sending a sudden shiver down my spine.
I debated the merits of throwing on a pair of pants first, but his fist banging impatiently on the other side of the door made the decision for me. I undid the security chain and slowly opened the door just enough to stick my head out.
“Hi.”
He gave my disembodied head a funny look. “Hi. Can I come in?”
“Um…” I looked down at my towel, which, in the face of Ramirez’s George Clooney stubble and worn-in-the- right-places jeans, suddenly seemed way too small.
“Please?” Eyes dark, voice low and intimate. That shiver transformed into instant heat, starting in the pit of my stomach and settling somewhere distinctly lower.
What the hell. He did say
I stepped back, opening the door. The second he stepped in the room, my studio felt about ten times smaller, bursting at the seams with sexy detective. I shifted nervously from foot to foot as his eyes gave me and my itty- bitty towel a slow up-and-down. I’m not totally sure, but I think I heard him groan somewhere in the back of his throat.
Or maybe that was just me.
“Uh, so, what are you doing here?” I asked, tugging at the hem of my towel. “I mean, not that I don’t want you here. Or that you shouldn’t be here. I mean, you can be here anytime you like. If you like. Which, you do, ’cause you’re here, but I mean, we kind of left things…I mean, I wasn’t sure where we…I mean, with all the fighting and all…”
I trailed off as Ramirez licked his lower lip, an innocent movement that somehow erased every single thought from my head.
“The birthday party, ” he said, bringing his eyes (with visible difficulty) up to meet mine.
“Huh?”
His tongue shot out again, and I started having the kind of thoughts that could land a person in SA.
“Your nephew, Connor? You invited me to his birthday party, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” Then I paused. “Wait-and you still want to go?” I was pretty sure that the whole “talk to me through my attorney” thing was free license for him to skip any and all family functions he’d previously agreed to accompany me to. And Lord knew I would have taken the out if I could. I cocked my head to the side. “Really?”
He grinned, deep dimples punctuating his stubble-covered cheeks. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Wow, he had a nice smile. I mean, like, completely-aware-I’m-not-wearing-any-panties nice. So nice I could feel any lingering anger I might have had at him melting faster than a push-pop on the Venice boardwalk.
“Right, ” I said, clearing my throat in an attempt to rein in those pesky little hormones of mine. (Which totally failed, by the way.) “So, does this mean that we’re…I mean, am I…We’re sort of…”
His grin widened. “It means we’re going to be late if you don’t get dressed.”
I glanced at my VCR’s digital clock. One-fifteen. He was right. We were so late. “Oh, crap! Molly’s going to kill me.”
I quickly heel-walked over to my closet and pawed through the pile of clothes sitting near the hangers. (I know, I know,
I leaned over to step into a pair of clean panties and heard that groan behind me again.
I snapped up straight and turned around to find Ramirez grinning from ear to ear, his eyes glued to the rising hem of my towel.
“Um, do you wanna wait outside?” I asked.
The grin widened and he slowly shook his head from side to side. “Uh-uh.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, I’m late. I have to get dressed.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Honey, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
Yeah, but that was before we’d turned into the Hat-fields and the McCoys. After our being at each other’s throats the last week, I wasn’t quite ready to do a striptease in my living room for him.
I tugged at the hem of my towel again.
“At least turn around.”
Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me, but complied, turning to face the door.
I quickly stepped into my panties and slid the dress over my head.
Even though I was ninety-nine percent sure he was peeking.
Ten minutes later me and my half-painted toenails (luckily the pumps were closed-toe!) were in the front seat of Ramirez’s black SUV pulling out of my driveway.
I glanced across the street. “What happened to the patrol car?” I asked, noticing the conspicuously absent spot between my neighbor’s garbage cans and the mailbox.
“I sent them home.” Ramirez sent me a sly sideways look, then rested one hand on my thigh. “You’re all mine today.”
I did a dry gulp and crossed my legs.
Oh boy.
My cousin Molly lived in a fifties-style bungalow in the Larchmont district of L.A., just south of the 101. Larchmont was a popular shopping area filled with little mom-and-pop bookstores, trendy boutiques, and three coffeehouses on every block. On the weekends it was home to locals browsing for bargains, and on the weekdays, actors memorizing their lines and moms pushing strollers two by two. Molly was one of those moms. Only there was no way her stroller would fit two by two anywhere. With four rug rats under the age of five, I think Molly was applying for sainthood in the near future.
Either that or head of the West Coast division of Mommy and Me.
“Mads! I’m so glad you could make it, ” she said, throwing open her screen door and attacking me with air kisses. I awkwardly tried to navigate a hug around her Buddha belly.
