I don’t intend to reach for him. But one moment, I’m standing there, feeling shredded and unbearably guilty. The next, my arms are around Tomasetti’s shoulders and his mouth is fastened to mine. The power of the kiss makes my head spin. My body surges to life with an intensity that shocks me. I’m caught in a flash flood and tumbling out of control. . . .
He grasps my biceps, and then my back is against the wall. His mouth trails kisses down my throat. His hands fumble at my belt and my robe falls open. His hands find my breasts. I hear myself gasp as callus-rough palms brush against sensitive skin. I’m having a difficult time catching my breath.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice shouts a warning. It tells me anything that feels this good can’t possibly be real or true or lasting.
I don’t listen.
He’s got the robe off my shoulders when I realize if I don’t stop this right now, we’re going to have sex either on the floor or on my desk, neither of which appeals.
I sidle right. Tomasetti follows and we stumble down the hall and into my bedroom. Dropping my robe on the floor, I draw back the covers and get into bed. Clothes rustle as he works off his shirt and steps out of his trousers.
And then he’s sliding into bed beside me. The familiar rush of what I can only describe as joy fills me when he puts his arms around me. My worries about Annie King and Sadie Miller and the case that has refused to come together fade into the background. And for a short time, we shut out the rest of the world. We take refuge in each other’s arms and this safe harbor we’ve built.
I wake, to find Tomasetti standing beside the bed, naked, his hair still wet from a shower. I have no idea how long I’ve been sleeping.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stretching.
“I’ve got to go,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost five. I’m late.”
But he climbs into the bed beside me. I snuggle against his shoulder, reveling in the solid warmth of him, the feel of his arm around me, the smell of soap and aftershave and his own distinct scent.
“There’s never enough time,” he says.
“You’re always sneaking away in the middle of the night.”
“Not by choice. I’ve missed you.”
Surprised by the seriousness of his tone, I raise up on an elbow and look at him. “Same goes.”
“We could make this a little more permanent.”
Shock rattles through me with such force that for an instant I can’t speak. “What do you mean?”
He surprises me by laughing. “For God’s sake, Kate, don’t look so terrified.”
I feign punching his shoulder. “I’m not.”
He sobers, looks away, then finally meets my gaze. “I found a house,” he says. “In Wooster. It’s old and big, with four bedrooms and a barn. It’s set on a couple of acres with a pond and lots of trees.”
The statement hits me like ice water splashed in my face. “Wooster?” I repeat dumbly as my brain struggles to sift through the implications.
“It’s less than an hour from the Richfield office. An easy commute for me. And thirty minutes from Painters Mill.”
“You want to buy a house?”
“I want to live with you,” he says firmly, but he’s watching me carefully. “The house doesn’t matter, Kate. It doesn’t matter where we live. We can rent. What ever you want.”
“That’s a big step, Tomasetti.”
“It is. But we have something good.” His expression softens and he kisses my temple. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”
I try to laugh, but my throat is too tight. “I didn’t know you were thinking about . . . moving in together.”
“It would allow us to spend more time together.” He shrugs. “Less commuting for me.”
“More time for sex,” I say with a laugh.
“There is that.”
I stare at him, trying to digest everything he’s just laid on me. Admittedly, there’s a part of me that’s excited and flattered at the prospect of living with this man who is such a big part of my life, a man I admire and am wildly attracted to. But another part of me is terrified it would change things, bring something unwanted to a relationship that’s good the way it is.
Knowing Tomasetti has enriched my life in ways I never imagined. In ways I never believed possible. I’m a better person because of him. I try harder because I know he will judge me, and I can’t bear the thought of not measuring up. In a world that’s stingy with friendship and trust, I’ve found a deep well of both with the most unlikely of sources.
I’ve never been in love, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found that with Tomasetti. I love him every way a woman can love a man. I love the part of him that is damaged and complex and difficult.
Does he love me? He’s never said the words. He’s never given me any indication as to the seriousness of his feelings for me. But is that proclamation some kind of unspoken prerequisite to shacking up? I don’t know the answer to that, either.
What I do know is that three years ago, Tomasetti went through a horrific ordeal when his wife and children were murdered. He’s come a long way since. He’s recovered as much as a man can after something like that. But is he ready to love another woman?
“You’re thinking awfully hard,” he says.
“I’m trying not to screw this up.”
“Nothing to screw up,” he tells me. “Either you want to live with me or you don’t.”
“It’s not quite that black and white,” I tell him. “We’re in a good place right now. I don’t want to ruin that.”
Leaning close, he brushes his mouth against my cheek and slides from the bed. “You don’t have to decide in the next ten seconds. I have to go.”
I watch as he steps into his trousers, jams his arms into the same shirt he wore the night before. “Tomasetti—”
“I left the rental parked in your driveway.” He doesn’t look at me as he buttons the shirt and cuffs. “I’m going to need the Tahoe.”
“Keys are on the counter by the fridge.” I sit up, find my robe at the foot of the bed, and slip it on.
“Go back to sleep.” He starts toward the hall.
“Tomasetti.” I follow him, barefoot, knotting the belt as I go. “We need to talk about this.”
I catch him in the kitchen just as he snags the keys off the counter. “I get it, Kate. It’s okay.”
“I’m terrible at this,” I blurt. “I’m a coward.”
“No you’re not.” He opens the door, pauses with his back to me. “On both counts. I have to go.”
“I need to know if we’re okay,” I say.
“We are,” he tells me, and closes the door behind him.
CHAPTER 17
I arrive at the station just before 7:00 A.M. Mona is sitting at the dispatch station with her headset around her neck and a grape Popsicle sticking out of her mouth. She’s wearing a pink-and-red-striped shirt with a black skirt that’s barely long enough to cover her . . . equipment. Black-tipped fingernails move deftly over her keyboard. She did something with her hair, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what.
She glances up when I walk in and smiles. “Morning, Chief.” She hands me a massive stack of pink message slips. “Sorry. They’ve been piling up since about six.”
“You looked different yesterday,” I tell her as I page through messages.
“Hair.” She indicates her head. “Added some burgundy.”
“I like it.”
She beams. “Any news on the Miller girl?”
