Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(30)

“Fine. Next week we’ll do this at your place. I’ll sit on my ass and watch you cook for me.” The perfect plant for another “date,” if all goes well tonight.

His eyes drop down at the mention of my ass, and I feel my cheeks burn under his scrutiny. Turning the sauce down to a low simmer, I move on to the meat mixture, pushing my sleeves up so I can begin rolling the meatballs into perfectly round spheres. Something I could do in my sleep. It used to be one of my Saturday morning chores, helping my mother make this staple in our household. As odd as it may seem, I’ve always found this process relaxing.

“I guess I should be paying more attention, then, shouldn’t I?” Luke slides off his stool and comes around to stand next to me, rolling a sleeve up over a defined forearm with slow, precise skill. He steps in until he’s hovering over me, his chest butting against my shoulder.

I pretend not to notice.

Just like I pretended that his hand on the small of my back as we walked home from the store didn’t affect me.

He leans toward the simmering pot. “My buddy’s girlfriend’s sauce smelled as good as this.”

“Is she Italian?”

“Russian.”

I groan. “Have you listened to nothing I’ve said today?”

A playful pinch against my ribs has me jumping. “That market has good stuff, from what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah. I’ll definitely be going back.” I barely noticed what they carried, too busy scrambling through, grabbing what I needed so I could get back to the butcher shop in time to overhear even a word or two of whatever business Dmitri and Rust have together.

Unfortunately, their discussions must have been quick or cut short, because I plowed right into Luke in my rush, already on his way out the door to meet me. We shared a laugh about it, as I hid my disappointment.

And now he’s standing so close, and I’m being hit with mental flashes of last night and the body that’s against me now heading toward the shower, and I’m needing to remind myself exactly why I’m here in the first place.

To arrest him, and put everyone he works with in cold, dark cells.

I’ve been in this deceitful place before. And yet this time, it feels completely new and different.

And somehow, more dangerous.

Minty breath grazes my cheek and I can’t help but breathe deep. Can’t help but turn into it. Can’t help but look up into a set of blue eyes that belong to a guy who helps young mothers pick up groceries and feeds homeless old men and doesn’t look criminal at all.

“You’ll have to wash your hands if you want to touch these balls.”

He breaks into a broad grin. Replaying the words in my head, I roll my eyes and laugh. “What are you, twelve?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “I know this may sound chauvinistic, but I love a woman who can cook.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I answer, sensing him shifting in slowly. Preparing to let him have a small kiss before I break away with excuses.

But then his phone begins to ring.

The slightest groan escapes him. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take this.”

I swallow the mixture of relief and disappointment rising inside me. “Go ahead.”

He makes his way straight for the small patio off the living room, digging into his pocket.

It’s obviously a call he doesn’t want overheard. I have to give him some credit—he’s already smarter than every other scumbag I’ve busted. They always assume that their code language is ingenious, that no one will understand that when they’re talking about types of birds and numbers and what intersection they saw them flying past, they’re talking about illegal stuff. Maybe a normal person wouldn’t.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Luke take a seat in the wrought-iron chair and light up a cigarette, phone pressed against his ear. He glances over at me a few times but I keep my head down, rolling the meat. Watching the clock. When the first few balls are sizzling in the pan, I grab one of Warner’s beers and a glass.

And I push through the patio door, acting like nothing’s wrong with stepping out here to offer my guest a drink.

Wary blue eyes flash up to me. What are you going to do, Luke? Risk looking suspicious by getting up and walking away? Or just stop talking altogether?

I hold up the can. He nods. So I take my time, placing the empty glass on the table, cracking the can, and slowly pouring its contents in.

“No . . . No . . . He’s a dumb ass . . . We have to help . . . You should give him a call . . .” I feel Luke’s eyes on me. I turn and offer him my most innocent, oblivious smile and then keep pouring.

While I and the FBI listen in.

“Yeah . . . Can you call Vlad and see what he can . . .”

Vlad. There’s that name.

“Really? . . . I don’t know . . . Yeah, I guess so. ’kay . . . Thanks, Rust.” He hangs up just as I’m holding out the glass for him. “Sorry, that was work.”

“No worries. I just thought you might be thirsty.”

He pauses for a long moment to consider me, a curious, unreadable look passing over his face. “I am. Thanks.” He stands and, instead of taking the drink, he curls a hand around the back of my neck and pulls my mouth into his.

I’m somehow completely unprepared as the taste of mint and just a hint of tobacco fills my mouth, as his other hand slides around my back, as he slips his tongue against mine with the skill of a guy who is confident that it’s okay that he’s doing this.