Page 94 of His Wall

I looked at my hand.

I was indeed holding a bottle of wine.

"It's a security check with wine."

He pulled me inside. He closed the door. He took the wine out of my hand and set it on the kitchen counter.

I began the sweep.

I crossed to the front windows. I checked the latches. I crossed to the bedroom. I checked the fire-escape lock. I crossed to the kitchen. I tested the back door. I came back into the living room.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed and the small private grin at the corner of his mouth.

"Done?"

"Done."

I crossed to him.

He was on me before I had said another word. His hands on my waist. He lifted me onto the counter. My legs came up around his hips. His mouth was on my neck before my back hit the marble.

I tipped my head back. I gripped the edge of the counter.

"I am supposed to be checking the perimeter."

"Check it later."

"Julian."

"Leah."

He'd whispered it there against my jaw last night, the night before that, and every night stretching back, always dismantling the story I'd told myself about the woman who walked into his apartment.

I stopped pretending I had come here for the perimeter.

We stayed for an hour and a half.

Afterwards, we were on the couch. The bottle of wine was open on the coffee table. My back was against his chest. His arms were around me. His chin was on my shoulder. The vinyl on the turntable was Bill Evans.

I felt his heartbeat against my spine.

"Stay tonight."

"I can't, Julian. I have to file the check-in and be at Harlow's office in the morning."

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either."

He laughed against my shoulder.

We talked. Not about the case. About his mother. About my father. About the fact that I had never shown anyone my apartment.

"I want to see it."

"There's nothing to see."

"There's you."