She studied him for a long moment. “Why did you come home? Really? Don’t tell me it was only because the position of police chief opened up. I’m sure when you decided to leave the Bay Area, you could have found a job in a hundred places.”
“Maybe.” He sighed. “When I found out Chief Coleman had decided to retire, I had just spent months undercover as a pimp and a drug dealer. Before that, I spent nearly a year posing as a white supremacist. I needed to wash the dirt out somehow and the job here just seemed right.”
“You needed to be home,” she said softly.
“I wouldn’t have put it that way. But yeah, I guess.”
“You’re doing a good job, Riley. J. D. Nyman is an idiot and he always has been. Just give people a little time. When the wounds of the last month aren’t so raw, people will see you’re exactly right for Hope’s Crossing.”
Her staunch defense of him, the faith he knew he didn’t deserved, warmed him. He gazed at her, so earnest and lovely. He ached to kiss her, to pull her close and just hold on.
He released a slow breath and pushed away his half-eaten dinner. “This was delicious, Claire, but it’s late. I’d better go.”
She looked a little disconcerted by his abruptness but nodded. “Thank you for staying. It was nice to have company besides Chester.”
He glanced at the dog, now splayed out on the floor. “I’ll go check to make sure the gate is latched before I leave so he doesn’t escape on you again.”
“Thank you.”
He left through the back door, grateful for an excuse to put a little badly needed distance between them. The high mountain air cooled his face and he filled his lungs with it. He should never have walked into that house. He should have just brought back her grumpy little dog, left him on the porch and headed back to his own space where he could be safe.
He had lived among despicable thugs for months, but he found Claire Bradford far more frightening than any of them.
He took his time walking around the backyard, steeling his will against making a stupid move. Finally he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer and he returned to the kitchen to find she’d cleaned up and was closing the dishwasher door.
“You’re right, the gate was ajar. I latched it now, so your escapee should have a harder time making his break.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“Good night, then. Thanks again for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” she said as he headed out onto the back porch. “Oh, wait. You forgot the cinnamon rolls.”
Keep them, he almost said but he knew she would insist on his taking them.
He stepped inside while she walked back to the kitchen for the container, then she returned and held it out for him.
“There you go. Throw in a coffee from Maura’s place in the morning and you’ve got the breakfast of champions.”
He managed to return her smile, although he kept one hand tight on the doorknob and the other gripping the container of cinnamon rolls like it was loaded with C-4 ready to blow.
“This was nice,” she said. “See? We don’t have to throw away a perfectly good friendship just because...”
Her voice trailed off and she blushed a little.
He closed his eyes. “Because I can’t spend sixty seconds near you without wanting to smear Angie’s frosted cinnamon rolls from your head to your toes and then lick it off inch by slow, delicious inch?”
She gulped and her eyes darted to the rolls, then to his mouth, then back to the pastries. With a defeated groan, he threw the box on the counter and grabbed for her, shoving the door closed with his foot.
He devoured her mouth, tasting cinnamon and coffee and a lingering hint of rosemary. Her lips parted and he dipped his tongue inside, sliding along the length of hers. She made a sexy little sound and buried her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, and he lost his grip on the last tangled thread of his shredded calm.
The kiss was wild, heated, tongues and lips and teeth, full of all the pent-up frustration and longing of the past two weeks.
Somehow through the urgent ache, he held on to one semirational thought, that he couldn’t leave her standing here when her leg was in a cast. If he wanted to continue kissing her—and did he!—he would have to move her to a more comfortable position.
Without breaking the connection of their mouths, he scooped her up into his arms. She gasped a little but didn’t pull away—instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as he carried her through the kitchen and into the family room.
He lowered her to the sofa, but she didn’t release her hold around his neck and he had no choice but to follow her down, careful even in the midst of the wild hunger scorching through him to take care with her injuries.
They kissed for a long time, stretched out side by side on her sofa while the old house shifted and settled around them. He lost track of everything but her softness and heat, the welcome of her mouth, of her body.