That brings the fire back into those stunning brown eyes. “We did kiss last night!” Her finger jabs my thigh. “I knew it!”
“Technically, you kissed me. Attacked me, actually—and I’m not complaining.” I lean down and press my lips to her forehead. “I just really, really want to return the favor.”
Before she can say no, I walk to the door. Her voice stops me as I reach for the knob.
“What are we doing? I mean, what is this, Brent?” And she sounds genuinely curious.
“We’re starting over. This is a new beginning.”
“But the case—”
“We won’t talk about the case,” I reassure her. “We’ll be grown-ups. Compartmentalize—there’ll be no conflict of interest.”
“Maybe I don’t want to start over.” She sighs. “There’s so much between us, I don’t know if a new beginning is possible.”
“Then we’ll talk about that tonight too. Six o’clock, dollface. Don’t be late.”
? ? ?
I head over to the National Mall to run my favorite route. High-octane energy sparks along every nerve ending like I’ve never felt before. The adrenaline rush before a lacrosse game was similar, but this is more. Because I’m so psyched for tonight.
Two hours later, I walk through my front door to find Harrison dusting in the living room. I toss my keys onto the table. “Harrison, my good man.”
He turns, a mixture of curiosity and mild surprise in his eyes. “Yes, Brent?”
I throw an arm around his young shoulders. “You know the Swedish au pair down the street who you’ve been crushing on the last six months?”
He gulps. “Jane?”
“That’s the one. I know for a fact that tonight’s her night off.” I slap three hundred-dollar bills into his palm. “It’s time to carpe diem, buddy. Take the car, take her out, show her a good time, and if you get lucky—go to a hotel. If you don’t get lucky—spend the night at your father’s. Whatever you do, don’t come home.”
He looks at the money in his hand, brows touching. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m having company tonight.” This is the first time I’ve ever asked him to make himself scarce; usually I’m encouraging him to watch. So I spell it out.
“Kennedy’s coming over. I’m making her dinner. Though you’re always impeccably discreet, I want her to be completely comfortable, so we’re free to talk about our feelings.”
Talk.
Strip.
Break the furniture, dent the walls, and defile every surface in the house. Could be wishful thinking on my part, but like the Boy Scouts say, it’s good to be prepared.
Understanding brightens Harrison’s eyes. “Ah, now I see.” He puts his feather duster down. “I should go change into something more appropriate for a visit with Jane.”
I smack his back. “Go get her, tiger.”
Doubt falls like a gray specter across his face. “Do you . . . do you think she’ll say yes?”
I rub his head, messing with his hair the way an older brother would. “She’d be batshit crazy not to. You’re a total catch.”
Harrison smiles, looking more relaxed.
We walk toward the stairs near the kitchen.
“Would you like me to prepare dinner for you and Miss Randolph before I go?” Harrison asks.
I step into the kitchen and wave him off. “No. I want to do it myself.”
“Very good, then.”
As Harrison continues toward the stairs, I call, “There’s just one small thing. How do I turn this stove on?”
? ? ?
By five fifteen, I have a simple lemon and chicken recipe in an “oven-safe dish” like the online instructions said, ready to go. I slide it into the oven and go take a shower.
By five thirty, I’m dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue button-down.
By five forty-five, the table is set—linen napkins, crystal glasses, china plates, silver utensils—Harrison would be proud. I turn the lights down low and put a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket to chill.
By five to six, I have the cooked chicken warming on top of the stove, hoping it tastes better than it looks. I light the candles on the table, sit on the couch, and wait for Kennedy to get here.
By six fifteen, I’m still waiting—but I’ve never met a woman who was actually on time, so it’s all good.
By six thirty, I turn on the TV and use my handgrips as I walk around the room. Watching and waiting.
By six forty-five, I pour myself a glass of wine.
By seven, I risk looking completely pathetic and dial Kennedy’s number. It goes to voice mail and I don’t leave a message.
By seven thirty, I’m on glass number two. And I blow out the candles.
At eight, I thought I heard someone on the front step, but when I went to check, there was no one there.
By nine, it starts to rain hard, thunder and lightning galore. I lie on the couch, arm bent under my head, legs stretched out, shirt open.
But it’s not until ten that I actually believe Kennedy’s not going to show.
12