Page 80 of Reckless Love

“Real food?” I ask, letting my hand get engulfed in his. “Like what?”

“I bought those pot stickers you used to love. Figured I could cook those up for you.”

I sandwich his hand with my other one, clinging to him as we walk down the short hallway. Joy fills my chest. “Are you going to play chef?”

He spins me at the entrance to the kitchen and cages me to the wall with his body. His hands are on either side of me, and his biceps pop out of his T-shirt. Everything about his height and breadth makes me feel tiny, but I’ve never felt threatened. Cared for. Always just cared for. Desire surges, and I’m on the verge of panting.

If I could pant without wincing in pain.

“I would be your chef,” he says. “For a price.”

A slow smile spreads. God, we used to play this game all the time. “Are we going to barter, Officer Foster?”

“Fuck,” he mutters, his gaze falling to my lips. “I forgot how much I used to like hearing you call me that.”

“What do you want in exchange for these world-famous pot stickers, Officer Foster?” I give him a saucy smile. “Cause I’m willing to play dirty.”

His pot stickers were my favorite late-night snack at his old apartment whenever I turned up there drunk at stupid o’clock in the morning. He’d crawl out of bed to make them for me no matter what time I arrived. While he cooked, I’d tease him and taunt him, turning the foreplay up along with the heat of the pan. His recipe is one I’ve never been able to replicate despite asking our personal chef several times to try just once more. Those nights with Stephen, when I finished my snack, the sticky, delicious sauce went to places that would scandalize half of Bellerive.

Back then, sex with Stephen was all kinds of things, but it was never boring, never routine. Thrilling. Breathtaking. And most of all, orgasmic.

“As tempting as that is, no bartering tonight,” he says, kissing my temple and stepping away. “You’re recovering from surgery, and you’ve still got broken ribs. We can barter another day.” He gives my ass a light tap as he steps around me.

“You’re such a tease!” I complain as I follow him into the kitchen.

“Finally,” he says, throwing up his hands in mock victory, “it’s me for once.”

That makes me laugh, which causes my chest to ache with a reminder, and I wince.

“How’s that surgery feeling right about now?” he asks.

“Not great,” I admit, “but I’m alive, so I’ll take it.”

The smile slips off his face, and he nods. “You’re alive,” he agrees. “I’ll take that too. Free pot stickers for you. No additional payment needed.”

I settle into one of the kitchen chairs to watch him, and I realize I haven’t felt this light, this sure that I’ve somehow landed in the right place, in years.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Stephen

The next day, Owen calls me to meet him at the office, and I reluctantly go. Thankfully, we hadn’t cancelled my parents’ care yet, and a nurse showed up this morning to find out she was minding Ava and Landon instead of my parents. She seemed surprised but otherwise unbothered by the change.

I can’t really afford to pay for both the nursing care and my parents’ place in the assisted-living facility, so I’ll have to have an uncomfortable conversation with Ava later. It stings to think about, given what she said to me the night I left Bellerive. Maybe she’s decided she doesn’t actually care about any of that, but old habits die hard—for both of us.

Owen’s secretary shows me into his office, and I slide into the chair across from his desk, waiting for him again. We’re all stretched thin with how quickly the security company expanded, which is going to make my conversation with him tricky today too.

Ava—making my life better and thoroughly fucking it up all at once. Just like old times. Because I have to admit, waking up to breakfast with her and Landon in the apartment was on par with the best Christmas morning of my life. Soon, I’ll have to man up and ask her for a re do on the DNA test, but given that even laughing makes her chest hurt, I’m in no rush to upset her. After our conversation the other night, I’m ninety-nine percent certain she has no idea that her mother might have forged the results, that questioning the results any harder than getting a second test never crossed her mind.

But everything I learned about Celia when I worked for her tells me she wouldn’t have hesitated to alter those results if they didn’t fall in the direction she wanted. I just don’t know if she did. It may have taken her kids years to see all Celia’s true colors, but they’ve been bold and bright to me from the moment she plucked me out of the force to handle her dirty work.

“Sorry I’m late,” Owen says, storming into his office and sliding into his leather chair on the other side of the desk. “I was at the police station, and traffic was bad.”

“They still have the road closed from the accident?”

“Raul Santos still might die, so yeah,” Owen says. “His estate will come after the police if they fuck this up. I don’t need to tell you this, but it’s a big case for them. That man’s vindictive enough to have a clause in his will about suing for incompetence, even if he dies.”

“Ava’s under the impression he’s going to wake up at some point.”