Page 69 of Flint’s Strike

Parker doesn’t pick up her menu right away. She leans forward and curls her fingers around my wrist. “Today was hard. It means a lot to me that you understand why. That we’re doing this—something so ridiculously normal—after the press conference, after talking with the Castillos, after…everything.”

I turn my hand palm up, mirroring her position and rubbing my thumb over her pulse point. “This can just be dinner. Or we can say ‘fuck it’ right now and try this on Saturday instead.”

Her blue eyes soften. “If we waited for the perfect time, we’d be waitin’ for the rest of our lives. We’ve done all we can today. A good meal with good company…? That’ll let us start fresh tomorrow.”

“Just a meal?”

She grins. “We’ll see.”

A small part of me thrills at her words. Maybe she hasn’t read my file. Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe we’ll have at least one night together before she runs for the hills. And maybe…that one night will be enough for a lifetime.

I keep my nerves in check through a round of cinnamon smoked Old Fashioneds and cheese-stuffed dates. The conversation flows easily. Favorite books and movies, our mutual hatred of paperwork, and a shared amazement that anyone would look at tree bark and think, “Oh, we should grind that up and put it in food.”

But when the server delivers our meals—pan-fried catfish over dirty rice for her and braised short ribs with cheesy grits for me—the quiet gives my nerves time to catch up, and my appetite runs for the hills.

“Eliot? You’re not eating.” Parker sets her fork down, a piece of fish still balanced on the tines. “If this thing we’re startin’ ends up in Urgent Care again, we might need to consider that a bad omen.”

This thing we’re starting…

I lift my gaze to hers. “Last night…and that reporter today… You’ve read my file.”

“No…” She frowns, drawing the word out like I’ve just told her the sky’s green.

My brows shoot up. “Why the hell not? You heard his question, Parker. Badly injured in a fire that killed a colleague⁠—”

“Now look here, Eliot. What I heard was an asshole thinkin’ he could sensationalize what I’m pretty sure was the worst day of your life. That don’t fly with me, which is the reason I stepped in. Emi Marsh is a friend of mine, and I knew she’d focus on what really mattered today. Catching the fucker setting these fires and gettin’ justice for Delia and June.”

I don’t have a reply for her. My head fills with static, a dozen thoughts chattering at the same time, each one fighting to either spare me or damn me in her eyes.

The silence goes on too long, and Parker leans close enough to rest her hand on my thigh under the table. “I figure tonight goes one of two ways. Either we scratch the itch we’ve both been trying to ignore for days and move on, or we start something real. If it’s the first, you can keep all the secrets you want. If it’s the second… I don’t want to learn about you from a file. And I sure as shit don’t want you to tell me a damn thing until you’re ready.”

I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. She’s giving me the one thing I don’t deserve.

Understanding.

And I have no idea how to tell her she’s making a mistake.

Parker takes my hand in both of hers. “When—if—you decide to trust me with your past, I’ll listen. Until then, just know I see you, Eliot Flint. All of you. And it’s a damn fine sight to behold.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Eliot

Parker’s headlights flash in the living room window. I open the door, watching as she pulls a small crossbody bag from the passenger seat, runs her fingers through her long blond hair, and locks her car.

“You beat me here,” she says, a hint of amusement in her tone. “I’m not used to being the slower driver.”

Sliding my arm around her waist, I pull her against me. “I knew where I was going. You had to follow my directions.”

“I followed my phone’s directions. Your directions had me turning left on a street that doesn’t exist.”

“It exists. You didn’t trust me.”

She tips her head up, narrowing her eyes. “We’ll see about that. When it’s light outside and I don’t have anywhere in particular to be. I wasn’t about to risk gettin’ lost tonight.”

The slight rasp to her voice is about to do me in. If I don’t put some distance between us, my zipper could do serious damage before we make it into the bedroom. Taking a step back, I wait for her to make the next move.

Parker’s gaze trails over the small space I’ve called home for the past five years. The couch, the TV, the chair no one ever sits in because she’s the only person to walk through my door who wasn’t a repairman here to fix something I couldn’t.