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I didn’t stop until we both had full glasses. I couldn’t fathom whatheneeded the extra wine for.
As traumatizing as my home’s burglary had been for me, it had to be on the mundane side for a hardened FBI dude.
I raised my glass. “To talking,” I offered.
He sucked in a breath, hesitating long enough for me to wish I hadn’t said anything. “To understanding each other.”
I could handle that. I took a bigger-than-normal gulp of wine.
“Sorry I don’t have anything better,” he said.
“This is great. Just what I need.”
He took a swallow of wine. “My schedule has been kind of unpredictable, and I keep having to throw fresh food out.”
“This is fine, really. I like simple food.” I’d meant to say something else;simple foodsounded like a put down. “The kind Momma used to make,” I added to soften the blow.
He shrugged. “Dig in.”
We ate for a while in silence, neither of us willing to be the first to bring up the talk we needed to have.
I hadn’t exaggerated about liking the simple pleasures, and the hot, cheesy concoction hit the spot. As Momma would have said, it coated my ribs. It had been a long time since I’d thought to add this to my menu at home. “This is great.”
“That’s because I added my own special touch.”
Looking at it, I didn’t see anything that hadn’t come out of the package.
“Three extra seconds in the microwave.”
I chuckled. “You have talent.”
When I looked up after my next bite, I caught a smile on his face as his eyes averted from my chest. I sat up straighter to make my boobs more prominent under this baggy attire. If he liked it, I didn’t mind.
He finished his glass, picked up the bottle, and offered me more.
“Sure.”
He topped off my wine before refilling his and taking a big gulp. A bit of the wine escaped onto his shirt.
I pointed. “You should slow down.”
He glanced down and held his shirt out, appraising the small stain. “Maybe, maybe not.”
I pulled the bottle to my side of the table. “Maybe yes.”
“What are you, my babysitter? I’ve only had one glass.” He finished the one in front of him, and as full as he’d filled it, he was now closer to three. There wasn’t much left in the bottle.
“Maybe you should drink slower is all,” I said, trying to ratchet this back from becoming an argument.
He stood, went to the refrigerator, and came back with another bottle, which he used to refill his glass. “I need this,” he half yelled.
I stood and took my plate to the sink. “You don’t need me to get drunk.”
“I’m not getting drunk; I’m getting ready.”
Was there something horrible he needed to reveal?
He brought his plate over, and I rinsed it off for him. Settling in behind me, he encircled my waist with his hands—not grabbing, but holding. He pressed me against the counter, and his mouth came to my ear, hot breath sending tingles through me.
