The Feel Good Factor(31)

That’s fine, especially since my first order of business is a shower.

It’s almost always a shower. After the gym, after work, whatever. I need the time to wash away the day and let it go. Too much goes on in my life, too many things I can take home with me. It’s best to find a way to shed them.

For me, that’s a hot shower.

After I dry off, I grab a pair of basketball shorts and tug them on, then hunt for a T-shirt. I snag a gray one from my duffel and pull it over my head, then I stop.

I know this woman’s weakness.

And I’m going to exploit it.

Because I fucking can.

Tossing the shirt to the bed, I make sure the waistband of my shorts rides low, and I go downstairs. When I open the door to the kitchen, I call out playfully, “Honey, I’m home.”

I swear I can hear her roll her eyes.

“Hey.” Her voice is emotionless.

“Can I come into the witch’s den?”

“Lair. It’s a lair.”

“May I enter?”

“At your own risk.”

I walk into the kitchen first and see my note is still up on the board. What the hell? How could she not like this note? It’s fucking adorable, and I am not an adorable man. Huffing, I grab the chalkboard and carry it to the living room where she’s curled up on the couch in yoga clothes, her hair in a ponytail, her knees up, and her head bent over her laptop. I brandish the chalkboard in front of my chest. Let her wait before she can see the twelve-pack I’m packing. “You working?”

She doesn’t look up. “Yup. Reports. Trying to work on this jewelry store—” She glances up, narrowing her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Did you not see my awesome note?”

She licks her lips. “I saw it this evening when I grabbed an apple.”

I eye her suspiciously. “You. You, who are addicted to coffee? You’re telling me you weren’t in the kitchen this morning?”

She shakes her head. “No, Detective McBride. I was not at the scene of the chalkboard crime. I had to leave quickly. I grabbed coffee at the station. I didn’t even go into the kitchen.”

“But you saw it tonight?”

“Yes, I saw it a little while ago when I returned home, and I’m also seeing it now, since you’re shoving it in my face.”

My gaze drifts down to the words I wrote in pastel yellow chalk. “Read it to me.”

She sighs, as if thoroughly annoyed. “Why do you want me to read it to you?”

“Because you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder, Miss Ten-Four.”

“My text reply was warranted. You’d only sent me a heads-up message.”

I tap the chalkboard. “And this is not a heads-up message. This is fucking flirty. Read it aloud.”

A smile tugs at her lips, and she seems to fight to rein it in. She draws a breath and reads. “Sorry I didn’t make it back in time to whip up a delicious chicken and broccoli dish for you. I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Also, I know what sound giraffes make. Ask me. :)”

I stab a finger against the board. “I used an emoticon. I hate emoticons.”

She smirks. “Okay, what sound do giraffes make?”

“I’m not telling you till you say you’re sorry.”

She laughs. “For what?”

“For assuming I was a dick.”

“I did not assume you were a dick,” she says, challenging me.

“A little dick?”

She gives me a sassy look. “Oh, I don’t think it’s little.”

I laugh. “It’s not little at all. It’s exactly the size you want.”

“Is it?”

“Kitten, you know you want to ride me.”

She rolls her eyes. “That is not what we’re talking about.”

“We’re talking about how you thought I ditched you.”

“I didn’t think that,” she says, defensively. Too defensively.

“You did. You thought I stood you up and didn’t leave a note, and you gave me the cold shoulder at the hospital, and then the cold text.”

“I had to take a report on a three-car crash! My colleague who’s up for the same promotion had just walked in ahead of me. We were working.”

Fine. She makes a fair point. But still, it’s time to pull out all the stops. I drop the chalkboard, and she gasps.

It worked.

I walk closer to her, half-naked, giving her the full view of my chest, abs, and V-line. Maybe I’m cocky, maybe I’m overly confident, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve worked my ass off to look good shirtless. Pretty sure Perri likes what she sees a lot, judging from the way those green eyes eat up my chest, stroll over my abs, and linger on my hips, where a flock of silhouetted birds flies up the V-line and around my hip.

“You . . .” she says, like there’s sand in her throat.

“Me what?”

She points at my birds. “Your . . .” It’s like she’s having heatstroke.

“You okay? Need CPR? I can help.”

“No,” she says, swallowing roughly.

“You see something you like, then?”

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t stop staring at my abs. I put my hands on the arm of the couch and lean in. “Now, admit it.”