When He's Dirty, стр. 8
Oh too well, I think, but work is my friend. I’ve really had no time to deal with the personal side of life these past two years. We pull up to the dimly lit cantina, with teal and pink as a theme. There are also beer cans hanging from the ceiling and music blasting, at present “Homesick” by Kane Brown is playing, and the words hit one of those personal notes I usually avoid. Only I don’t feel homesick like I used to at all. My new life is where I belong, no matter how lonely at times, and how much my mother likes to believe otherwise.
Grace and I head to the bar area, which includes a dance floor, where we’re greeted by co-workers and then end up at one of the tan wooden standup tables. We’ve barely ordered margaritas when the music is cut and Josh is ordered to the center of the empty dance floor, while one of the senior homicide detectives I know well, Martin Morgan, holds a microphone. Martin is tall, blond, and muscular with a hard face and a scar on his mouth. Josh is a bit taller, with light brown hair, and strong, classically handsome features that engage plenty of female attention, including Grace’s, who leans in close to me to whisper, “Do I have to trust him to lust after him?”
“First comes lust,” I say, managing a serious tone, “later trust.”
“Good point,” she says, snatching up a chip. “Lust has to happen first.”
I smile with the wishful look she casts in Josh’s direction, and at the jokes and speeches a slew of people soon deliver, about and on behalf of Josh’s retirement.
It’s a fun time, but there’s no question that by the time the formalities are over, I’ll be feeling tipsy. The margarita is big, strong, and despite being barely touched, effective at delivering my buzz, which probably is aided by the fact that I actually don’t remember what I ate today. I reach for another chip and Grace grabs my arm. “Josh is coming over here. I don’t know if I should do this, Pri.”
“Honey,” I say, aware that she was hurt badly and not that long ago. I also know Josh has long shown interest and he seems like a good guy, better than most. “You’ll know if it’s right. Give yourself some freedom to find out.”
“Right. You’re right. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can figure things out.” She rotates away from me to greet Josh.
Right about then, Detective Newton, a thirty-something redhead, who I’ve had the pleasure of working with on several cases, stops by my table and introduces his wife before they head to the dance floor. A few more people I know chat with me about work before Grace appears by my side again, and since she’s out of breath, I decide she’s been making out or dancing. Her lipstick is perfect, so dancing wins.
“Josh wants to get a table in the restaurant, the two of us. Are you—”
“I’m fine. Go. Have fun. Tell me all about it later.”
“You’re sure?” she asks anxiously.
“Positive.”
She hugs me and whispers, “Take an Uber home. I don’t want you walking alone.”
And then she’s gone. I have no idea why I feel a twist in my belly, but I recognize it as familiar—it’s loneliness. I’m alone. And if I’m honest, it’s become a bit empty. But how do I do this job and ever not be alone? It’s not exactly proving to be safe. And for a lot of reasons, so many reasons, I need to do this job.
I sip my drink and prepare to leave when a Rafael song comes on. I’m instantly jolted back into my morning coffee encounter with another Rafael. And just like that, as if I’ve willed him into existence, he’s standing next to me—tall, dark and gorgeous, in black jeans and a black T-shirt.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” I reply.
“This seems like our song, don’t you think?” He offers me his hand. “Dance with me?”
I’m charmed by his reference to me saying that he looks like Rafael. It’s also a sexy song, too, and I oddly, considering how many men I deal with daily, feel a bit shy with this man but I still manage to say, “I think it might just be.”
Yet I find myself hesitating to take his hand, and I don’t know why. It’s as if some part of me knows that touching him is a major decision, a life-changing decision when it’s just a dance in a Mexican cantina. It’s just a dance and still, I am blinking up at him, searching his face for answers, and what I find in his rich brown eyes is interest, intelligence, a connection I feel to my toes. And I know why I hesitate. I know why my hand lingers above his. This—him—we’re bad timing. And right now, I’m toxic.
Chapter Five
PRISCILLA
I pull my hand back from Rafael’s. “You don’t want to dance with me.”
He studies me, his head tilting slightly, his intelligent brown eyes searching mine. “You mean you don’t want to dance with me.” It’s not a question, but rather his assessment.
“No,” I say quickly. “Yes. I mean—thankfully, I’m a little less confusing in a courtroom than I am right now. Let me try again: it’s not about what I want.”
He steps closer, and he smells woodsy and masculine with a hint of spice, his scent teasing my nostrils and stirring my senses. It’s been so long since a man stirred anything in me. “It’s very much about what you want,” he says, and even his voice—all low, rough baritone—does funny things to my belly. “I’m all about you right now,” he adds.
My hand lifts and almost lands on his chest. I catch myself and