The front door opens. Closes. His truck starts in the driveway, and the headlights sweep across the kitchen window as he backs out.
Ben appears in the kitchen doorway six seconds later, which confirms the phone call was absolute fiction. He's leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, looking at me with an expression that's part protective older brother, part amused spectator.
"He got here at six thirty for a seven o'clock dinner. Sharpened every knife in the drawer while he waited. Then he made a salad like it was a military operation."
"Ben."
"I'm just saying. That man has it bad. And he's gonna need a minute."
My hand is still warm where Reid's finger touched it. Three inches of contact. A brush so light it could've been accidental if Reid Holloway did anything by accident, which he doesn't. Everything he does is deliberate. Calculated. Controlled.
He touched my hand on purpose.
A minute. Fine. Reid can have a minute.
But I've already waited twelve years, and I'm done being patient about this.
What I want is standing six foot three with silver in his hair and scars on his knuckles, and tonight he looked at me across a dinner table and didn't look away.
That's a start.
Chapter Three
REID
Three days since Sunday dinner. Three days of grinding through security rounds with my head anywhere but on the job.
Ben's knives. Ben's kitchen. Her knee against mine under the table, and the way her mouth curved when she laughed, and the fact that I touched her hand on purpose and then drove home at ten miles over the speed limit because my blood was running so hot I couldn't sit still in the cab.
Wednesday evening. The building on Main that Hank rents to three tenants, including the one-bedroom above the old hardware store where Mira lives. Regular security check. Walk the perimeter, test the exterior locks, eyeball the fire escape. Routine.
The back door lock is loose. Deadbolt wobbles when I test it. Two screws stripped, the strike plate shifting away from the frame. Not an emergency, but not acceptable either. A strong shoulder would pop this open.
Hank would want to know. And I could call him, leave a message, let him handle it on his schedule. That's the professional move. The smart move.
Instead my boots are on the stairs before I've made a conscious decision, and I'm standing on the second-floor landing with a toolkit in my hand and every trained instinct telling me to turn around.
The door opens before I knock. Mira is standing there in gray sweatpants that ride low on her hips, a white tank top, and bare feet. Hair down. Damp, fresh from a shower. No bra.
I know she's not wearing one because the tank top is thin and the hallway is cold and my eyes drop for exactly one second before I drag them back to her face.
She notices. Her lips press together, not to hide a smile but to trap one.
"Reid."
"Your back door lock is stripped. Two screws need replacing and the strike plate is shifting."
"Okay."
"I need to fix it."
"Now?"
"The lock needs to be functional before you sleep here tonight."
She leans against the doorframe. Arms crossed, which does things to her breasts under that tank top that should be classified. "Are you here because of the lock, or are you here because you've been thinking about Sunday dinner for three days and needed an excuse?"
Both. Obviously both. But admitting that would require acknowledging that I drove past this building every night this week at exactly the time her kitchen light turns on, and a man in his forties doesn't get to admit to behavior that pathetic.
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Jade by Mackenzy Fox
