Becker spent the entire day going over the rental listings his realtor had faxed to the cottage, but if anyone asked him to describe any of the houses, he’d draw a blank. It was hard to focus when he couldn’t quit thinking about Jane. Wondering what she was doing. Debating if he should call her up, tell her to forget everything he’d said yesterday, and take her to bed again. He managed to fight the temptation, but by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he was anxious as hell. He’d gone to the hotel restaurant for dinner, convincing himself it was so he could get out of the cottage, but deep down he knew he was hoping to run into Jane. He hadn’t, and now he was back in his room, absently flipping channels on the TV and wondering how the hell it was possible to miss someone so much, especially someone he’d only known a week.
Shutting off the TV, Becker finally gave up on trying to distract himself with mindless sitcoms. Maybe if he had someone to talk to about this. Someone who could offer some advice, tell him what to do. His head kept telling him to get over it, that Jane wasn’t the right woman for him. She was too bold, too ambitious, breezing through life with her sassy smiles and act-before-you-think attitude. He didn’t want another woman like that. He wanted to be with a woman who desired the same things as he did, not one day as Jane had said, but right now.
So yeah, his head knew all this. But his heart? His heart ached for Jane. Or maybe it was just his cock doing the aching. Maybe she’d cast an erotic spell on him.
Regardless, he couldn’t sit around here anymore, thinking about her. Before he could stop himself, Becker reached for his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts list until he came across one particular name. He hesitated. Fuck, did he really want to do this? Initiate some awkward male bonding time?
Do you really want to be alone? a voice countered.
With a sigh, he pressed send and waited. Carson Scott answered the phone after two rings. “Hello?” the other man said easily.
“Uh, Carson, it’s Becker.” He cleared his throat, growing uncomfortable. He would have rather talked to Will Charleston, but Will lived too far away. Carson, on the other hand, was only five minutes away, having just moved into a building not far from the hotel. John Garrett lived around here too, but Becker was definitely not comfortable calling Garrett, who he knew the least out of all the men.
“Lieutenant?” The surprise in Carson’s voice was palpable. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing really.” He faltered. “I just called to see if you felt like having a beer. With me.” For Christ’s sake, could he make it sound any more like a date?
There was a pause. “A beer. Uh, sure,” Carson finally agreed, still sounding confused. “I’m actually watching the Padres game right now. You want to come over here?”
“Yeah, I can do that. I can be there in ten.”
“Cool.” Carson rattled off his address and apartment number then said, “See you in a bit then.”
Becker hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. He could call back. Cancel. Tell Carson he’d changed his mind. But what was the alternative? Channel surf some more and think about how much he wanted to see Jane again?
He stood up with a decisive nod, and was in the car five minutes later, driving toward Carson’s apartment building. This was the first time he’d made an effort to see one of his teammates outside of work, and as he pulled into the visitor’s lot of Carson’s low-rise, he found himself growing nervous. Shit, maybe he ought to turn around and go back to the hotel. He didn’t know how to do the friend thing, sharing your feelings and all that crap. He’d always been a private person, and he felt a spark of annoyance towards Jane as he realized she was the one who’d driven him to make social contact.
If he hadn’t met her, he wouldn’t be so torn up in knots right now. He wouldn’t need to seek out advice from a man he hardly knew.
Sighing, he got out of the car and stuffed his hands in his pockets, warily eyeing the quaint building, which boasted redbrick walls covered by strands of ivy. The front entrance was small, featuring a series of mailboxes and intercoms. Becker searched for Carson’s name then pressed the button.
“Hello?” came a throaty female voice.
Becker cleared his throat. “Uh, hey. It’s Thomas Becker.”
“Oh, hi! I’m so glad you’re here. I need a second opinion about my Osso Buco. I’m buzzing you in.”