Chapter 11 #2
She crossed her arms. In the mood for a date, not a lecture, although that was quickly changing. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent driver. I’ve never once had so much as a fender bender or a ticket.”
“I could change that tonight.” His voice wasn’t angry. It simmered.
He wouldn’t actually ticket her, would he? Could he?
“Rangers don’t write tickets,” she stated. It was all bluster, though, because she didn’t know.
“We’re fully commissioned to enforce any Texas law, including traffic violations. We also have full arrest authority.”
“Is that how tonight ends? You arrest me?”
He exhaled through his nose. When he spoke again, he had calmed somewhat. “You drifted toward the other lane. If you’d overcorrected, you’d be in an ER right now. I swear, it shaved five years off my life!”
Her irritation faded. This wasn’t about control; it was genuine concern for her safety.
“I was distracted,” she admitted. “I… uh… haven’t had a first date in a really long time.” Tentatively, she laid her hand on his chest, the first touch she’d initiated. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m sorry for that.”
He waited, eyes on her.
“And… I’ll slow down,” she promised.
His tension eased, but only slightly. “Good,” was all he said.
“Can we continue? Despite the drunks and the rain, and the distracted driving—”
“And the speeding.”
“That too,” she conceded. “I was having a good time and really wanted to show off my gallery.”
“We can, but there’s one other thing.”
She tried not to groan as she struggled to recall if she’d renewed her tags in the past year or had her brake lights checked.
“Look at me, Erica.” He waited until she did. “If I’m in the vehicle and conscious, I’m driving.”
She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Control freak.”
He leaned in close enough that she felt his body heat. “No, darlin’. It’s only that I prefer not to gamble with things I care about.”
Her heart tripped. Somehow, she managed to whisper, “Deal.”
He focused on her mouth, and she thought he might lean in for a kiss. Instead, he said, “Show me your favorite.”
She blinked. “My favorite?”
“Painting,” he supplied.
“Oh, right.” She moved deeper into the gallery, trailing her fingers along several frames, hoping to ground herself in something solid. He had that effect on her.
He followed closely, which didn’t help.
She stopped in front of a spring morning with purple wildflowers set against a sunrise sky of pinks, purples, and oranges. He bent to read the signature—Erica Stevens.
“This is your favorite?”
“And you’re wondering what that says about my ego?
” She huffed a little laugh. “It’s not so much about the piece as the subject matter.
I found this meadow about twenty miles north of here and had to paint it.
” She scanned the room. “I actually can’t pick a favorite. They’re all uniquely beautiful.”
He moved to another framed oil, a seascape, by a former student who was one of her best sellers.
“I can see why you come here when you need everything to stop.”
“Well… not exactly here.” She led him toward a smaller space in the rear. “This is my studio. It’s usually my happy place and my haven of escape.”
He walked carefully through canvases in varying stages of completion. One stood apart, and he migrated to it.
In muted grays and fractured light, the abstract had a smear of deep red dragged from one corner. She’d titled it, Tension Coiled in Paint.
“This one’s different from the others.”
“I painted it before I knew who she was,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Before I had a name to give to the fear.”
He took that in, didn’t try to dismiss it or explain it away. Then he returned to her, his warmth palpable as he moved closer, invading her space.
“You said usually. Are you happy now?” he asked.
She looked around her studio, through the open door to her gallery, then up at him. “I’m leaning that way.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Lean harder.”
His hand slid to her waist. The other came up slowly, brushing a loose tendril of hair from her cheek. Her body locked, pulse kicking up. She wanted him to kiss her so badly, it scared her. Despite the horror show her life could become, she hadn’t been scared like this in a long time.
His head dipped until she felt the rush of his breath on her lips. He paused there. “Still nothing?”
She closed her eyes for half a second, testing the energy surrounding them. “Nothing that I’m not supposed to feel.”
“Good. Because I don’t want anything or anyone in this with us.”
When his mouth met hers, it wasn’t tentative. It was controlled, heat building by slow degrees, as if he were measuring how much she could take before she unraveled. She wondered that, too.
Her hands slid up to his chest. She couldn’t miss the steady strength and the firm contours beneath his cotton shirt.
His fingers slid into her hair and found the twist. One careful tug and the clip loosened. Her hair spilled down around her shoulders.
He made an indistinct sound in his throat. “It’s as soft as I imagined,” he said against her mouth.
The kiss deepened, and her head was blessedly silent. No borrowed emotion or intrusive panic. Just him and his body pressed to hers and the heat of his mouth.
When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she tasted beer, mesquite, and something entirely male. Her fingers curled into the cotton of his shirt, and she opened, for him, craving more.
A phone vibrated between them. Annoying and intrusive, but they both ignored it.
His hand splayed wide over her lower back. She leaned in to be closer.
At a second vibration, she lost his mouth when he swore under his breath. Resting his forehead against hers, he apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m on call. I have to take it.”
She nodded, trying to steady her breathing and racing pulse.
“Cooper,” he answered, one arm still around her, keeping her close. His expression shifted, becoming the controlled Ranger again. “I’ll be there, but I’m about thirty minutes out.”
He ended the call.
“Duty calls?” she asked.
“At the worst of times.”
He put space between them. The slight downturn of his lips said it wasn’t because he wanted to but because he had to.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
He didn’t leave her alone in the gallery. He didn’t let go of her hand until they reached her vehicle. And when he did, his thumb lingered over her pulse point.
“Seven tomorrow. Your place,” he said quietly.
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I didn’t agree to that.”
“Yeah, you did.”
She smiled. He wasn’t lying.
He kissed her once more, lighter this time, but no less deliberate. The imprint lingered as he walked away.
Erica sat behind the wheel, engine silent, long after he drove out of the lot, wondering exactly how far she would have let him go if the phone hadn’t rung. Her answer came in the hum of her body, still warm from his touch.
She wouldn’t have stopped him at all.