Chapter 4
four
DREW
Fuck.
I should have paid more attention to our conversation instead of the curve of Georgie’s body. Or imagining the way that long tail of hair would look wrapped around my hand if I tugged her head back so I could kiss her.
I wasn’t thinking about what we were talking about and the words just fell off my lips because I’m a cop, I don’t lie. I get enough of that on the job.
Even here, in this sleepy little town, people lie in an attempt to get out of a parking or speeding ticket.
And lying to Georgie, no matter what I’m trying hard to keep hidden, is the absolute last thing I’ll do.
The line in front of us shuffles forward and I nudge her with a grumbled, “Move up.”
She pops forward, a squeaked, “Sorry,” slipping through her lips as she does.
Lips I’m sure would be soft and sweet.
Shoving that thought aside, I slip into cop mode and hope none of what I’m feeling for this girl comes out in my voice. “No problem.”
We’re quiet. Stepping forward with each movement of the line in front of us and when it’s finally her turn, I try my hardest not to crowd her, except the bright tone of her voice pulls me in with every word she speaks.
She’s ordering a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows for fuck’s sake, not asking me to press against her.
Or kiss her.
Or lift her onto the counter, shove her legs wide with mine, and fuck her.
But that’s exactly what’s playing through my mind and my body reacts to my thoughts—hardening in places not suitable for public viewing.
Since my divorce I don’t need a hand to count the number of women I’ve wanted. There haven’t been any.
Except that’s not true.
I need a finger.
One finger to count the number of women I’ve wanted.
And she’s standing in front of me emanating heat and a sweet scent I can’t place other than to know it’s hers.
The first time I laid eyes on her I knew I was in trouble. Especially seeing how she looks so young. For a split second I thought I’d turned into a pedophile only to discover the girl in front of me was not a teenager.
Although twenty-three to my thirty-five wasn’t any better and I stayed clear of her as much as I could manage. But since her grandmother’s death I’ve found that more difficult to do.
The thought of Georgie all alone, with no one to take care of her, to love her—yeah, I might not be the right man to get close and do either, but I am one who can do it from a distance.
Except with each passing day staying at arm’s length gets harder and harder.
Something my dick knows all about. Spontaneous public erections haven’t been an issue since I was a pubescent teenager, but the last seven years have been a test of control I never dreamed I’d be subjected to.
And this close to her, I’m at risk of embarrassing us both.
Fuck.
I need to get out of here.
Away from temptation so I can shore-up my defenses against the slip of a girl who’s proving to be my greatest desire.
I don’t remember feeling this enamored with Jen. And I married her. Wanted to have a family with her.
It’s something I need to look more closely at.
If Georgie inspires more emotion, more depth of desire than my ex-wife did, should I keep fighting this attraction?
Or should I tell her how I feel and see where we could go?
I’m twelve years her senior, but she’s not a girl in spite of me referring to her as one.
She’s a thirty-year old woman. One who deserves love. A family.
I’d give a nut to be able to give her those things.
And that thought tells me everything I need to know.
I don’t need a deep dive into my emotions or mind right now.
If someone is going to give Georgie Bookman the life she deserves, why can’t it be me?
Assuming she’s attracted to me of course. It would be pointless to pursue a relationship with her if she isn’t.
But after two decades of being married or single with no interest in dating, I’m at a loss as to how to approach her.
I’m the first to admit I’m rusty when it comes to relationships. I have no close friends; work colleagues who are acquaintances more than friends are the only people in my life.
The single person I actually want to speak to outside of work or the general life necessities like ordering a meal or thanking the cashier at the grocery store is standing in front of me.
But how do I change the habits of a lifetime?
According to my ex-wife my lack of friendliness is one of my many flaws that destroyed our marriage.
Then again, our divorce proved she wasn’t so friendly either. More a bitch in disguise. At one point in the settlement process I remember thinking Jen must have been one of those mean girls in high school.
Smiling all pretty when she wanted something from you but talking about you behind your back when you were no longer useful.
I was married to the woman for years and not once had I seen the real her.
The lies I discovered since the night she told me she was leaving with another man’s baby in her belly are uncountable.
We’d lived a lie.
Well, I had; she’d known exactly what she was doing.
It’s inexplicable how I can sniff out a criminal’s lie within seconds and yet I was blinded to the lies of the woman I slept beside.
“What can I get you, Deputy?” Sydney, Sips’ resident barista, pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.
“The usual.” I hadn’t even noticed Georgie moving to the side. “Black coffee.”
“Want some peppermint in that?”
“No!” The word launches out, loud and harsh, but it doesn’t offend Sydney.
She pokes out her tongue before saying, “Boo. You’re no fun. Loosen up a bit, deputy, it’s the season to be jolly.”
I force a smile.
I’m sure it’s a grimace.
Smiling is another thing I’m rusty at. Hard to be happy when the life you thought you’d live is snatched away to be lived by someone else.
From the corner of my eye I see Georgie moving toward the exit. “Ms. Bookman, hold up.”
Using her last name instead of her first has helped me keep my distance in the past, only now it tastes bitter on my tongue. And when my call goes unheeded, I do something I’ve never done before.
“Georgie!”
When she swings around, shock clear on her face, I’m struck dumb.
Clearing my throat, I attempt to do the same to my brain, but with the way her mouth is parted and her eyes wide, a vision of her looking the same while on her knees in front of me is taking up all the real estate in my head.
“Deputy?” Glancing back, I see Sydney holding out my drink. “Your coffee.”
Grabbing it, I mutter, “thanks,” before I head in Georgie’s direction.
The look of confusion on her face has me wondering what the hell I’m thinking. I’m the first to admit this isn’t me. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe not. We’ll soon find out.
“I’ll walk with you back to the library.”
Without giving her time to protest, I curl my fingers around her elbow and urge her toward the door. Pulling it open when we get there, I guide her outside.
On the sidewalk I let go of her and begin to walk. The loss of her warmth is like a cold burn on my palm and I switch my cup to that hand to relieve the ache.
She’s quiet as we head down the street, but so am I. Although I see the side-eye she’s giving me. Not wanting to ruin the moment by saying something stupid, I keep my gaze ahead and enjoy the feel of her beside me.
I want to grab her hand. Want to weave my fingers through hers and hold on.
The urge is new. I never held hands with Jen. She didn’t like it and I can’t remember if I objected to that or not.
But that’s the past and this is now, and possibly my future.
All I know is, the girl—no, woman , I need to get used to the fact she isn’t the young girl I’ve tried to convince myself she is—the woman walking quietly next to me makes me feel things I’d forgotten I could.
She makes me want things I thought I’d lost.
Makes me believe the life I always wanted is still possible.
Makes me want to open myself up to the potential of pain.
Because the potential for pain means the potential for joy. And after years of hiding from life, years of just going through the motions of it, I think I’m ready to break free and actually live it.
I only have to convince the woman next to me the standoffish man she’s used to isn’t the one inside. Isn’t the one I want to share with her.
“Um,” Georgie clears her throat after making the sound and I hold my breath, wait to see what she has to say. “Was there a reason you wanted to walk with me?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Confusion drips from her voice.
Yeah, that answer won’t do. “I just thought it might be nice to have company while I drink my coffee.” Shit! That one isn’t much better.
“You don’t do that very often.”
With a bark of what could be laughter, I look down at her profile. “What? Have company or drink coffee?”
“Both together?” Her words are loaded with uncertainty.
“No. I don’t,” I answer truthfully.
“But you want to drink coffee with company today.”
I nod.
“With me.”
“Yes.”
“Because I’m here?”
“No. Because you’re you.”
I watch her throat work as she swallows. “Okay.”
That one breathy word has a smile stretching my lips and I bring my cup up to hide it.
“Don’t do that. Don’t hide behind that cup.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “I saw that even if you want to pretend it never happened.”
“I think we’ll leave the smiling to you. Yours is prettier than mine.”
It’s a lame attempt at flirting and we both know it, but we’re on shaky ground, walking new territory neither of us knows how to navigate. And I’m not talking about the slippery sidewalk.
“Have dinner with me.” The words are a demand, not a question, and I frown at myself. “Sorry, let me try that again. Georgie, would you like to have dinner with me?”
I can’t tell what she’s thinking until a snort-like noise leaves her mouth.
“Are you laughing?”
“S-sorry.” She continues to snicker.
“Hmm…” I frown down at her.
Her hand lands on my arm and the heat of her skin seeps through the layers of fabric between us. “Yes. I’ll have dinner with you.”
“Don’t force yourself,” I mutter.
“I’m not. And I only laughed because you sounded so unsure of what you were asking.”
“Huh.” I take a sip of my quickly cooling coffee to wet my dry throat. “I guess I am unsure. I’m older than you by more than a decade.”
She stops walking, forcing me to stop with her.
Turning to face her, I find her waiting for me to expand on my statement. “I’m forty-two.”
She eyes me. “And?”
“I. Well.” I shrug. “I’m old.”
Another snort-laugh bursts out of her.
“I’m not sure I see the funniness in my age…”
“It’s not your age I’m laughing at. It’s this”—she waves a hand between us—“whole thing.”
“Yeah.” I sigh, disappointment deflating my lungs. “I figured.”
“You figured what?”
“That asking you out wasn’t a good idea.”
“I think it’s the best idea you’ve had. Where are you taking me?”
“I.” I snap my mouth shut and stare at her. “Um, I haven’t thought that far ahead,” I’m forced to admit.
“Why don’t we take the pressure off and meet at the festival on Friday night? Watch the tree lighting together and grab some food.”
“I’m working.”
“Oh. Well. Okay.” Her mouth turns down for a moment before curling up again. “Do you get a dinner break? I can meet you, we can eat, then you can go back to work.”
It’s not what I planned. Not that I’d planned anything. But it’s a start. And it gives me time to make a plan. Because going in blind, with no direction, seems stupid, and Georgie deserves better than a thoughtless man.
“We can do that. I’ll let you know what time and where before Friday.”
“Sounds like we have a date.”
Her words remind me of what I’m doing, what I hope to achieve with this bumbling attempt at asking her out, and I can’t stop myself from smiling. “Yep. It’s a date.”
One I’m looking forward to more than anything in too many years to count.
Now I just have to make sure I don’t fuck it up.
Because I have a feeling Georgie Bookman could be the best thing to ever happen to me.