Fourteen

Vale

It seemed appropriate that I'd never been to this restaurant with Dayton.

"This looks good. Have you been here before?" I asked after the waiter had left our meals—a spinach and artichoke pasta for me and a steak with baked potato and carrots for Day.

He shook his head while he unrolled his silverware then placed the napkin in his lap. "The place went up a few years ago, but I don't really go out much. Brennan and I get takeout a lot when I don't try to cook. You've witnessed how well that's gone. Smoke alarms and charred food."

"Maybe, we could cook together sometime. I love to cook."

"Maybe, we can," he agreed, and he sounded genuine and not as if he were placating me. "Fair warning: Gordon Ramsey would have fits over my pathetic attempts."

"Do you think that's all for show?"

"No, I'm really that bad."

"Ha-ha. I meant Gordon. Do you think his yelling and insults are just for the show?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe." He took a sip of his wine. "What do you like to cook best? Outside of baking, that is."

I forked a tender twist of cavatappi pasta, considering it. "Baking and cooking are different, though, don't you think?"

He looked down at his plate. "Never thought about it. I can't do either."

That was a lie. He had considered it. We'd had this same discussion once. In another lifetime. At least for me.

"My specialty is stuffed chicken marsala with mashed red-skin potatoes—usually with green beans."

Dayton's fork froze in midair because he'd always loved when I—when Melonie—made that.

"With apple pie and cinnamon ice cream?" he asked in a low voice.

Indeed that was what I'd always made when I went all out, but I couldn't push too far. Deep down, I knew if I said more to rouse memories of the past, he'd get suspicious.

My shoulder lifted. "We were talking cooking, not baking. And that's kinda fussy, don't you think? It's hard to find cinnamon ice cream, so I'd have to make it myself. And I don't even have an ice cream machine. So it would probably be chocolate cake with thick chocolate ganache icing."

He nodded, seeming content with my answer. "So what do you do when you're not tempting men with your culinary skills."

Oh shit…

Another trigger.

I took a sip of wine. "I'm an ESL teacher."

"English as a second language teacher," he echoed slowly. I didn't look at him while I poked at another noodle. "What language?"

"English, of course. On my end. And I work with French and Spanish students. Usually those kids from Europe don't need much help, though. I swear, sometimes, their English is better than mine. But occasionally, there's a student who needs some shoring up. Usually younger students who are gearing up for a year abroad in student exchange," I told him in a rush, inundating him with information in hopes he'd let go of me being multi-lingual, as Melonie had been.

The jobs were completely different, though, so maybe…

"You speak Spanish and French?" he said, and I could see his detective brain parsing through info. In the middle of a crowded restaurant wasn't the place for a conversation about soul switching, especially when I wasn't even sure if he'd believe me.

"Yeah." I nodded along with my confirmation. "German, too. I'm in the middle of learning Japanese. I think it'll be a while before I'm fluent in that, though." I shrugged. "I love languages."

As Melonie, I'd always said the two foreign tongues were more than enough. I'd said that to him, more than once, so I hoped knowing two more languages would sidetrack this conversation. I had my doubts, since it came on the heels of the food disclosure.

"What about you? How long have you been a detective?"

"You tell me."

"What?"

He stared at me until I was a second from calling Kale for a rescue. If that happened, I could guarantee, Dayton would never see me again.

"Never mind. I'm just…" He shook his head. "I've been a detective for six years. I was vice for five years before that."

"Like drugs and stuff?"

"Mostly. Sometimes, prostitution, trafficking, gambling, monitoring gun activities. Things like that. Undercover a lot."

"Your wife musta loved that."

He sank back in his chair with a soft smile curling his lips. "Ahhh," he hummed. "She wasn't a fan. One year, for our anniversary, I was able to come home for the night—under the cover of doing some scouting for the gang I'd infiltrated—they thought I was someplace else entirely. And she ended up with a rough-looking, long-haired, scruffy-faced guy at the dinner table."

"I—" I caught myself quickly before telling him I remembered that. We'd skipped dinner in favor of some of the hottest sex we'd ever had. My thighs clenched together at the thought of it.

"I can't imagine," I lied.

"Yeah, well, she sure was glad when I got promoted after my last bust."

"So you're saying, if things work out here, I'll never see your edgy gang persona?"

"I don't know. Maybe, it could be arranged." A wholly different grin took over as he regarded me, hunger replacing the nostalgia, both of us in the here and now, Dayton fully with me and leaving the past in the past as he'd resolved to last night.

Unconsciously, I squirmed in my seat, and a spark lit in his eyes, the predator seeing prey in his sights. That reminded me of a secret I knew, too. The entire world knew a different Dayton from me. I knew how dominant, demanding and kinky he could be behind closed doors.

A little dimple appeared in his cheek before he returned his attention to his meal, and I did, too. The awareness running between us didn't abate, my own arousal tingling in my pleasure centers, the sensations escalating whenever our eyes met.

"Dessert?" he asked after we'd finished our entrees.

I shook my head. "I don't think I could manage another bite, but feel free if you want something. I'll just sip my wine."

"I don't think they have what I really want, anyway," he replied.

"And what's that?" I asked, suddenly a little breathless.

"I know I said I wanted to go slow, but…" He shook his head. "I don't know what it is about you. Slow seems like the most asinine idea I've ever had. Right now, what I really want after this meal is to taste your mouth and to see if it's as sweet as I think it is."

I swallowed hard, and the tip of my tongue shot out to dampen my lower lip before I realized it had happened.

"Jesus, Vale," Dayton groaned. "You're gonna kill me."

"Trust me. That's the last thing on my mind," I told him. It was only knowing he was alive and safe that had gotten me through the past few years.

"And what are you thinking?"

"Slow doesn't appeal to me, either."

Dayton jerked a nod then signaled to the waiter. When the man produced the bill, Dayton just handed over his credit card without studying the printout. Minutes later, we were on our way Dayton's fingers firm around mine.

I thought he'd kiss me when we got to his truck, press me up against the side and give in to what we both wanted. He didn't. After he handed me inside, I thought maybe we'd kiss in the truck, but instead, he started the vehicle and took my hand, holding it on his thigh all the way to my driveway.

It was on my doorstep that his hands came up, cupping my face before the his fingers slid back, one curling in the hair at the nap of my neck before his mouth sealed over mine. Though I'd known it was coming, I gasped at the shock that went through me when his lips touched mine. Rolling to my toes, I leaned in to him while he dropped one hand and wrapped his arm tight around my waist and pulled me flush to him.

I couldn't help the low moan that sighed from me at the sensation of his hard body against me. In response, his mouth grew more demanding and his fingers tightened in my hair, the light bite of pain reminding me of the wildness that had been between us.

"Dayton," I breathed when our mouth parted, both of us gasping.

"Vale," he growled in response, and for the first time in many years, hearing that name startled me. "If we don"t stop…"

If we didn't stop, we wouldn't. That's what he was implying, and we both knew that would be too fast.

"I… Thank you for dinner. It's was great. Uh, goodnight."

"Goodnight. Come to my place tomorrow for dinner? For that cooking together you mentioned?"

"Yes. What should I bring?"

"Yourself. Text me with what you want to make and what we'll need, and I'll make sure it's there." He leaned in and brushed his lips over mine again, light and fleeting, and I suspected he kept it that way so we didn't end up stumbling through my door and right into my bed. "I can just order takeout, too. We don't need to cook."

"We'll cook," I murmured, my eyes closed while our foreheads pressed together.

"Okay." As we parted, he took my key from my hand and opened my door. It was only through sheer force of will that I closed it moments later. I wanted to invite him inside, more than anything. Still, I knew slow-ish was better than rushing in now that we'd reconnected.

Turning, I punched my code into my security system's keypad, then I slipped my purse off my shoulder and turned to drop it on the console table near the door. I froze, staring. The small bowl where I usually tossed my keys was flipped upside down. The picture above it tilted crookedly on the nail that mounted it to the wall.

Any lingering arousal evaporated, and I pushed down my fear while I looked around. Nothing else seemed out of place. Nothing to pique my suspicions.

It had to just be Kale and his guys, letting me know they'd been here. My brother had made it clear I was getting more security installed. They must have been here already, and this was just the sort of thing one of them would do.

"Biter," I muttered, shaking my head and fixing the items. The dish and the frame were completely his kind of mischief, and I'd bite his head off later from ruining my muzzy Dayton mood.