Chapter 11
ELEVEN
CHARLES
The smell of garlic and red wine filled my kitchen as I pulled the braised ribs from the oven, and for the first time in months, I felt that deep satisfaction that only came from cooking for someone who would appreciate it.
Not that I didn’t love baking for my customers—I did—but there was something different about preparing a meal in your own kitchen, using your own dishes, for someone sitting at your own table.
Someone who’d already complimented the appetizer three times, which had been a simple home-baked ciabatta with olive oil and an herb mix. The man was easy to please, it seemed.
“This smells incredible,” Eamon said from behind me, and I jumped slightly. I hadn’t heard him approach, but there he was, standing close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Need any help?”
“Can you grab the wine from the counter and refill our glasses?” I tried to ignore the way his proximity made my pulse quicken. “Everything else is ready.”
He moved with surprising grace for such a big man, collecting the bottle and glasses while I plated our food. The domesticity of it hit me square in the chest—this easy rhythm we’d fallen into, like we’d done this a hundred times before instead of this being only our second shared meal.
“So tell me something about yourself,” I said once we were seated, raising my wine glass. “Something not in your official detective biography.”
Eamon paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, a flicker of something—panic?—crossing his features before he recovered. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Hobbies? Guilty pleasures? Weird habits that would make me question living with you?” I grinned to take the sting out of the last part, but his expression grew thoughtful.
“I love to dance,” he said finally, so quietly I almost missed it.
I blinked. Of all the things I’d expected him to say—working out, watching sports, restoring classic cars—dancing hadn’t even made the list. “Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” But he was smiling now, that real smile I was starting to treasure. “What, you don’t think I have rhythm?”
“It’s not that.” I gestured at him with my fork. “You’re a cop, and you’re this big, intimidating guy who swears like a sailor. Dancing seems…”
“Not masculine enough?” There was a challenge in his voice, but it was playful rather than defensive.
“No, that’s not what I meant at all. I think it’s wonderful. I just wouldn’t have guessed.” I took a sip of wine, studying his face. “What kind of dancing?”
“All kinds. Ballroom, Latin, even some Irish traditional dances.” His accent slipped slightly on the last words, that rolling lilt I’d noticed earlier creeping back in.
Had he lived in Ireland for a while? Or maybe he’d been born there and had emigrated?
It would explain the occasional slip in accent and the distinct British expressions he used from time to time.
“My ma used to say I had music in my bones.”
The way he said “ma” instead of “mom” strengthened my suspicion that he had Irish roots. “She taught you?”
“Aye, she—” He caught himself, cleared his throat. “Yeah, she did. In our kitchen, after dinner. Da would play his fiddle and Ma would show me the steps.” His expression grew distant, almost wistful. “Some of my best memories.”
“That’s beautiful,” I said softly, and meant it. The image of a young Eamon dancing with his mother in a cozy kitchen felt so at odds with the tough exterior he presented to the world, but somehow it made perfect sense. “Do you still dance?”
He shrugged, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Not often. I mean, I dance in clubs, but that’s more grinding than anything else.”
“Nothing wrong with some good grinding…”
“No, but it’s not the same.”
“I would love to see you dance sometime. I bet you’re amazing.”
The smile he gave me was soft and grateful, and I had to resist the urge to reach across the table and touch his hand.
Instead, I took another bite of the ribs, savoring the rich, full taste.
Making these took a little time, but it was so worth the effort.
And the mashed potatoes had come out great as well, fluffy and creamy.
“What about you?” he asked. “Any hidden talents I should know about?”
“I read romance novels,” I blurted out, then immediately felt heat flood my cheeks. “Like, really steamy ones. The kind with shirtless guys on the covers and scenes that would make your grandmother clutch her pearls.”
Eamon nearly choked on his wine, coughing as he set down his glass. “Romance novels?”
“Don’t laugh,” I warned, pointing my fork at him.
“They’re actually really well-written, and the character development is often better than literary fiction.
Plus, they always have happy endings, which is more than I can say for most books these days.
I’ll take my feel-good moments whenever and wherever I can find them. ”
“I’m not laughing,” he said, but there was definitely amusement dancing in his green eyes. “Just trying to picture you curled up with a book called The Dirty Duke’s Desire or something.”
“How did you—” I stared at him. “Have you read romance novels?”
“Maybe I’ve seen a few covers,” he said with a grin that was pure mischief. “So what’s your favorite? And please tell me it involves pirates or cowboys.”
“Aliens, actually.”
“Aliens?” He leaned forward. “Tell me more.”
“There’s this series about a spaceship that gets stranded on another planet, and the guys all end up with alien mates.
They’re, like, seven-foot-tall and purple, and they have massive…
equipment. It’s absolutely ridiculous but also incredibly hot.
” I could feel my face burning, but something about Eamon’s easy acceptance made me want to keep talking. “The sex scenes are…inspiring.”
The temperature in the room seemed to spike by about twenty degrees. Eamon’s eyes darkened, his gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before snapping back up. “Mmm, I see,” he all but purred, his tone shooting straight to my cock. “So that’s when your seven-inch friend comes to the rescue?”
“Indeed. He’s been very helpful in alleviating the pressure.”
“I bet,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “Any details you want to share? Don’t be concerned about my sensibilities. I can handle it.”
Why did I have to have this insane chemistry with this man? His mere voice was making me hard now, flashing all kinds of dirty scenarios through my head. “I’m sure, but it’s not appropriate. You’re on the job.”
He made a face. “Who cares?”
I did, though not as much as I should. “Speaking of inappropriate,” I said, desperate to change the subject before I did something stupid like crawl across the table, “what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever hooked up with someone?”
Eamon raised an eyebrow. “As if that’s appropriate?”
He had a point there, not that I would admit it. “Whatever. You damn well know you couldn’t possibly care less. Now spill. You seem like you’ve got some stories.”
His grin was pure male sexiness. “I have a few for sure, I do. Let’s see… There was the time in a confessional booth, but that’s probably too blasphemous to share over dinner.”
“A confessional booth?” I gaped at him. “Seriously?”
“The guy was the priest’s nephew, and he had a very unhealthy relationship with authority figures,” Eamon said with a shrug. “Plus, the acoustics were surprisingly good.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh my god, you’re going to hell.”
“I would, if it existed. Though that wasn’t even the strangest place. There was also the time in a museum storage room.”
“A museum?”
“Natural History Museum in Dublin. The guy was a tour guide, very passionate about paleontology. We ended up getting frisky behind a display of dinosaur bones.” Eamon’s grin turned wicked. “Let’s just say the T. rex wasn’t the only thing that was big and impressive that night.”
“Did you get caught?”
“Nearly. A security guard came by doing his rounds right as things were getting interesting. Had to hide behind a woolly mammoth exhibit for twenty minutes until the coast was clear.” He shook his head.
“Nothing kills the mood quite like crouching naked next to a bunch of fossilized mammoth shit while trying not to sneeze from all the dust.”
“That’s terrible,” I wheezed, wiping tears from my eyes. “But also kind of amazing.”
“The guide thought so too. Kept sending me pictures of various exhibits for weeks afterward with very detailed descriptions of what we could do in each location.” Eamon took a sip of wine. “I had to block his number when he started getting creative about the butterfly conservatory.”
I didn’t even want to ask. “Compared to you, I’m boring.”
“No scandalous locations in your past?”
“Nothing that exciting. Though I did have a very uncomfortable encounter in a supply closet at my old coffee shop. Turns out flour sacks make terrible pillows, and there’s nothing romantic about the smell of industrial cleaning supplies.”
“Sounds like a mood killer.”
“You have no idea. Plus, Justin kept checking his phone the entire time. There was some big game on, and he was more interested in the score than me.”
Eamon’s expression darkened. “What a fecking tosser.”
“Tosser?”
“Asshole,” he clarified quickly. “Guy sounds like a real piece of work.”
“He was.” I pushed the memory away. Justin belonged in my past, and I was tired of letting him take up space in my present. “Anyway, what about bad hookups? Please tell me you have at least one mortifying story to make me feel better about my own poor choices.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty.” Eamon leaned back in his chair, grinning. “There was this one guy in Vegas—gorgeous, built like a Greek god, and absolutely terrible in bed. Lasted about thirty seconds and then spent the next hour apologizing while showing me pictures of his pet iguana.”
“His iguana?”
“Named Fernando. Apparently, it was very talented and could play dead on command.” Eamon shook his head. “I learned more about lizard care that night than I ever wanted to know.”
“That’s… Wow.” I couldn’t stop giggling. “Poor guy.”
“Poor Fernando, more like. Having to live with someone that neurotic couldn’t have been easy.”
We dissolved into laughter, and I realized this was what I’d been missing. Not so much the physical attraction—though there was plenty of that—but the easy conversation, the shared humor, the feeling of being truly seen and appreciated by another person.
“This is nice,” I said without thinking.
“What is?”
“This. Dinner, conversation, laughing together.” I gestured between us. “I’d forgotten how good it feels to cook for someone who enjoys the food.”
Eamon’s expression grew serious. “How long has it been? Since you cooked for someone like this, I mean.”
“Five years,” I admitted. “Since Justin. I’ve made meals for friends, obviously, but this kind of dinner…” I trailed off, not sure how to explain the difference between cooking out of obligation or friendship and cooking because you wanted to nurture someone.
“I’m honored. This is the best meal I’ve had in a very long time.”
The sincerity in his voice made my chest tight. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not bullshitting you.” He reached across the table, covering my hand with his much larger one. “You’re incredibly talented, Charles. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate that is a fecking eejit.”
His thumb traced across my knuckles, such a simple touch, but it sent heat shooting straight through me. I stared down at our joined hands, marveling at how right it looked, how perfectly his fingers curved around mine.
“We should do the dishes,” I said, though the last thing I wanted to do was move.
“Probably,” he agreed, but neither of us made any effort to pull away.
Finally, reluctantly, I slipped my hand free and began clearing the table. Eamon helped without being asked, collecting plates and glasses. “You can stack them on the counter there so I can wash them.”
“No dishwasher?”
I shook my head. “I had to sacrifice something to ensure I had enough storage. It’s okay. I don’t mind doing the dishes.”
“I’ll help.”
And he did.
“You’re good at this,” I observed as he dried a plate with practiced ease. Most people I knew were so used to having a dishwasher that they’d never developed the easy routine of doing the dishes by hand, but he was different.
“Good at what?”
“Kitchen stuff. Doing the dishes. You move like you know what you’re doing.”
Something flickered across his face—that same brief panic I’d noticed earlier. “Basic life skills, aren’t they?”
We worked in comfortable silence, bumping into each other occasionally in the small space. Each accidental touch—Eamon’s hand on my lower back as he reached around me for a dish towel, my fingers brushing his as I handed him a wine glass—sent little jolts of electricity through me.
By the time we finished, the air between us was practically crackling with tension.
“All done,” I said unnecessarily, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
“Mmm.” Eamon was standing directly behind me now, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scents of dinner.
I turned slowly and found myself trapped between his body and the counter, his green eyes dark with an intensity that made my breath catch. He was so close I could see the faint scar along his jawline that I’d noticed that first day.
“Charles,” he said softly, and my name sounded different in his voice, rougher and more intimate than it had any right to be.
“Yeah?” My voice came out barely above a whisper.
He lifted one hand, cupping my face with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his size. His thumb traced along my cheekbone, and I felt myself leaning into the touch despite every rational thought in my head screaming at me to be careful.
This time, I wanted him to kiss me. More than wanted—I needed it with an intensity that scared me.
He leaned closer, and I could feel his breath warm against my lips. Another inch and—
He jerked back like he’d been burned, running a hand through his dark hair. “I should, uh, I should do another perimeter check. Make sure everything’s secure.”
“Eamon—”
“Give me a few minutes,” he said, already backing toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
And then he was gone, leaving me standing alone in my kitchen with my heart pounding and my lips tingling from a kiss that never happened.
I pressed my fingers to my mouth, torn between disappointment and relief. Part of me was grateful he’d pulled away—getting involved with him would be complicated at best, dangerous at worst. But a bigger part of me was frustrated beyond belief.
Because for those few seconds, I’d felt more alive than I had in years.