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"Now, do you want coffee?"
"I...yeah. And a glass of water.”
"Then go sit on the couch and wait for me. I’ll bring you your drinks, and then we're going to talk."
I do as he says, settling on the couch and crossing my arms over my chest. My pajamas from last night don’t feel like nearly enough clothes around Dean, which is stupid. He’s already seen me naked.
A moment later, Dean hands me a cup of coffee, black, the way I like it. I take a sip, letting the flavor wash over me, and sigh. "So, what do you want to talk about?"
"Let's start with how much Brody knows."
I flush. "Did he see us? Please tell me he didn't."
Dean shakes his head. "No. But I'm sure he has an idea, considering the pillows and blankets gave away that we slept in the living room. And he tried to go to talk to you in the shower, and I almost broke his nose. So yeah...he's not totally stupid."
My stomach rolls, and I press a hand to it. "Oh my god. I feel...Brody is..."
"It's okay, baby. I just needed you to know he’s not completely in the dark.” He takes my hand, stroking his thumb over my knuckles comfortingly. “We don’t have to talk about him anymore. He's not part of this."
Tapping my fingernails on my coffee mug, I consider my next words carefully. "What is 'this' exactly?"
Dean moves closer to me, bringing my hand to his lips. "This, Delia, is me taking care of you. In every way."
"Why? I mean, don't you think it's a little weird?"
"Is it?" He tilts his head, looking at me. "There's nothing weird about me taking care of what's mine."
How much longer am I going to let him keep saying this stuff? At first, I thought it was just a sex thing…like pet names or something, but Dean sounds completely serious when he says it. It scares me and thrills me in equal amounts. "But I'm not yours."
Dean smirks, and my heart rate kicks up. "You are. And now I'm going to prove it to you."
He leans in, cups my chin in his hand, and kisses me. I'm utterly lost.
It's 3 PM. Dean had to leave just as things were starting to heat up between us again—an emergency call at the police station he couldn't ignore. Meanwhile, I have a single text from Brody I’ve been reading and re-reading for hours now.
Brody: Can we talk?
It's such a simple question. I could easily just tell him no and move on with my day. But I'm stuck. It would have been way easier if he just accused me of being a terrible person and hooking up with his dad, but no...he had to be all vague and hard to decipher. I want to let Brody down easy, but I'll be lying if I say he’s the main thing on my mind.
It's hard to think of anything except Dean Dixon.
To keep busy, I start going through his kitchen, a plan in mind. I still have no idea what I'm doing or what is going on between the two of us, but there's nothing wrong with making the man a meal, is there?
Gosh, just thinking about him makes my cheeks heat and my core tingle. He talks to me like forever is on the table. Maybe…it is, but we've only known each other for a single day. He's all the things I didn't know I wanted—strong, steady, and hot as hell. His age doesn't bother me, and he has a real career.
What am I thinking? Nothing can come of this but maybe some physical stuff. It doesn't matter if it's all too easy to picture something more between me and Dean.
I move to open the freezer, but something attached to the face of it with a magnet catches my eye—a receipt from a local restaurant for a Thanksgiving meal catering order. Oh, that just won't do.
With a small, secret smile, I call the restaurant and cancel the order. My next order of business is to plop back down on the couch, go to my favorite grocery delivery app, and make a nice big order. Turkey and all the fixings, made from scratch by me of course. I'm going to blow Dean's mind tomorrow.
He comes home from work a few hours later, and I still haven't answered Brody's text. I've got the turkey in a brine bag in the refrigerator, and when Dean opens the front door, I'm in the process of cutting a ton of apples. I turn around to see him, knowing I'm going to have to explain myself, but stop in my tracks when I see Dean Dixon in his full Chief of Police uniform.
Holy. Shit. Now I know what people are talking about when they gush over a man in uniform.
"Um," I say, feeling a bit like a deer in headlights. "Hi."
"Hello, princess." He closes the door behind him and advances, taking off his hat and tossing it on the counter. "What's going on here?"
