Law Man (Dream Man #3)(89)

So long and so well, when he was done, he lifted his head and gazed down at me, the haze he created took its time to clear and I heard it.

Nothing.

“I think they’re gone,” I whispered.

He cocked his head and listened. Then he let me go, grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the door saying, “Thank Christ, let’s go eat. I’m f**kin’ starved.”

Yep, that’s what he said.

Not like we had a drama.

Not like he heard a word I said.

Not like the Trailer Trash Twins had again come calling.

No, like we often went out to dinner and all that had gone before was like a last minute phone call that was a minor diversion before we could get out the door.

Yes, Detective Mitchell James Lawson was stubborn.

More stubborn than me.

Damn.

Chapter Twenty-One

Drug of Choice

My eyes opened slowly and they instantly took in everything.

I was in Mitch’s big bed. Down the bed I could see his club chair and draped over the club chair was my silky, sapphire top and jeans. These were tangled with a man’s espresso-colored, tailored shirt, matching sports jacket and another pair of jeans with a brown belt threaded through its loops. My shoes were on the floor as were a pair of men’s boots.

There was heat behind me and I knew what this heat was. It was Mitch. There was weight on my waist and I knew what this weight was. It was Mitch’s arm.

I felt warm and safe and I knew why this was. I was in Mitch’s bed, in Mitch’s apartment with Mitch.

And no Billie.

Billie and Billy were in another house somewhere not there.

Oh boy.

* * * * *

North was an Italian restaurant in Cherry Creek. I’d been there twice before. The food was fabulous, the décor gorgeous – dark wood, cream leather seats with hints of lime green and bright orange. It was awesome.

Nearly the minute we arrived, Mitch being a detective, stubborn and clearly, I was belatedly realizing, having an insane desire to wheedle himself into the life of a Two Point Five, took advantage of my highly emotional state.

He barely had his beer, me my passionfruit frizzante and our waitress had just turned away from our table after getting our food order when the interrogation began.

“I wanted you to do this in your time, at your pace but after watchin’ you go wherever the f**k you went in my apartment I’m seein’ I can’t let you do this in your time and at your pace. So, right now, you’re gonna tell me about your Mom,” he ordered.

I looked anywhere but him, took a sip of my refreshing, delicious drink and tried to get my wits about me after experiencing the drama with Mitch which included a side order of my Mom at the same time trying to figure out a way to do anything but tell him about my Mom.

Unfortunately, I did this with my left hand resting on the table. Therefore, I found my left hand stretched halfway across the table and my fingers laced with Mitch’s.

Mitch’s fingers laced with mine felt nice. And not a little nice.

A lot.

Damn.

I put my glass down and looked at our hands. Then I looked at Mitch.

“I don’t think –”

His fingers squeezed mine. “Tell me.” His voice was very firm.

I decided first to try bitchy. “It’s really none of your business.”

He shook his head. “I know you’re filtering this information so you don’t have to deal with it so I’ll keep tellin’ you until it sinks in. Mara, you’re gonna be in my bed and my life, and when you get a new one, I’m gonna be in your bed and your life. And, cluein’ you in, you might take a good look at things and notice you’re already in my bed and my life. So, since I intend for that to keep goin’, I’m gonna have to know about your life. Not what you’ve built for the now but what you survived to get to the now. So,” his fingers gave mine another gentle squeeze, “tell me about your Mom.”

I glared at him then informed him, “You’re filtering information too, such as me explaining about boundaries and then me telling you that you have to move on.”

“I’m not filtering, sweetheart. I’m ignoring that shit because it’s whacked. Now, tell me about your Mom.”

“It’s not whacked,” I replied.

“It is,” he returned then pushed, “Tell me about your Mom.”

“It is not.”

Yet another finger squeeze and then, “Mara, baby, tell…me…about…your…Mom.”

My head tipped to the side and my eyes narrowed. “You’re very stubborn.”

“Tell me about your Mom.”

“And annoying.”

“Tell me about your Mom.”

“And bossy.”

“Mara, your Mom.”

“And you can be a jerk.”

“Mara –”

I rolled my eyes and said to the ceiling, “Jeez, all right, I’ll tell you about my Mom.”

This was not me giving in. This was my new strategy. I decided that maybe he should know about my Mom. Maybe, even though it was clear he was always alert, very insightful, often figured me out and already knew a lot about me, maybe he was somehow blind to my Two Point Five-edness.

So I decided to let him in on it.

I took another sip of my frizzante, put the glass on the table and launched in, not looking into his eyes, finding anywhere to look but him as I re-colored the Mara he thought me to be.