Chapter Nineteen Hailey
Cole and I spend hours at the police station later that afternoon, but as we trudge back into my apartment just after five p.m., I wonder why we bothered.
I know filing reports and laying down a paper trail is important in cases like this, but it’s hard not to feel crushed by the futility of a broken system.
Without physical evidence or witnesses, it’s your word against his.
There’s nothing we can do, but call us if something happens.
What kind of world do we live in that waiting for the other shoe to drop—with physical evidence and witnesses, of course—is the best protection being offered?
As soon as we get back to my apartment, Cole follows me into the kitchen, his presence making the space feel approximately three sizes smaller.
The man is built like a Greek statue that someone accidentally brought to life—all broad shoulders and solid muscle and a jawline that will make you forget what you were saying mid-sentence.
Not that I’m staring.
I’m definitely staring.
I distract myself by arranging sunflowers in a vase.
We stopped at the store on the way back from the police station, because I insisted on cooking dinner for Cole tonight to thank him for all he’s been doing for me.
The flowers seemed like a good idea at the time—their sunny yellow petals and wide, friendly faces seeming to promise a brighter day ahead.
But the dopamine hit I’d been hoping for fizzles out.
A bouquet of cheery flowers can’t touch the numb resignation spreading through my insides.
I’m hyperaware of Cole moving behind me—the sound of his footsteps, the musky scent of his cologne, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Every nerve in my body is tuned to his frequency like some kind of horny radio antenna.
Maybe I don’t need sunflower-fueled dopamine.
Maybe I just need to get Cole’s pants off.
I welcome the giddy euphoria that fizzes through my blood at the thought. I might be an adult woman who can make dinner without spontaneously combusting from proximity to an attractive man, but right now, I’d happily burn.
When I turn around, he’s closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the green flecks in his hazel eyes. Close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Because that would be weird.
“I’m starving,” he says, but I don’t believe for a second he’s thinking about the steaks I bought us.
“Steak and garlic mashed potatoes, coming right up,” I manage, my voice coming out slightly breathless. Very cool. Very casual. Not affected at all. “Nothing too fancy.”
“Sounds perfect,” he says, and the way he’s looking at me confirms it: he’s absolutely not talking about the food.
I hand Cole a bottle of wine to open before I do something embarrassing, like run my tongue over his muscled forearm.
He turns the bottle in his hands, staring between it and the corkscrew on the counter.
“You can open a bottle of wine, right?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Of course I can open a bottle of wine.”
“If you say so…” I trail off.
He frowns at the corkscrew. “I have opened many bottles of wine, Hailey.”
“Successfully?” I tease.
“Mostly.”
I turn back to the potatoes I’m peeling and listen, with great interest, to the very specific crack of a cork breaking in half, followed by silence.
“How’s it going back there?”
“Fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Fully under control.”
I keep peeling. Behind me, the corkscrew goes back in. There’s a long struggling sound—a soft grunt, the faint squeak of cork giving up its will to live—and then a small, defeated thunk. That’s when I turn around.
Cole is staring at the bottle in his hand.
“Cole.”
“Don’t.”
“Where’s the cork?”
“It’s been…relocated.”
“To where?”
“Inside the bottle.”
“You pushed the cork into the wine?”
“It was easier than pulling it out.”
I have to set down the peeler because I’m about to drop it, and then I lose it. Real, doubled-over, can’t-catch-my-breath laughter. He stands there with the bottle of pinot noir held hostage, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he tries very hard not to smile.
“You can rappel down a mountain face,” I gasp. “You jumped out of a plane at fourteen thousand feet. You’re in tech security. And yet, you have been defeated. By a cork.”
“It was a faulty cork.”
“It was a perfectly average cork.”
He hands me the bottle, and I find a small mesh strainer in a drawer and pour the wine through it into a clean carafe. A handful of sad cork bits fall into the strainer.
“There,” I say, holding up the strainer like a trophy. “Crisis averted.”
“You are extremely smug right now.”
He pours us both a glass while I finish making dinner.
…
“This is incredible,” Cole says as he takes his first bite of steak. The sound he makes is borderline obscene. Like, there should be an age restriction on that noise. “Who knew you’d be such a great cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I tease, cutting into my own perfectly medium-rare steak. “But thank you. I don’t cook for people very often.”
“Their loss,” he says simply, and the sincerity in his voice makes my heart do an embarrassing little flip. He makes it look so easy to be this genuine. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to remember how to use a fork like a normal human being.
As we eat, I find myself relaxing in a way I haven’t in weeks. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the food. Maybe it’s the way Cole looks at me like I’m the only girl in the world.
“Okay,” I say, setting down my fork with a sudden seriousness. “Confession time.”
Cole’s face does something complicated—a flash of genuine panic crossing his features. His fork hovers midair, and I swear I see him stop breathing for a second.
Interesting.
“Confession?” he repeats, his voice slightly strained.
“Mhmm.” I take a slow sip of wine, drawing out the moment because his reaction is fascinating. What does this man have to hide? And why does that hint of fear make him even more attractive? “There’s something I need to know about you. It’s important.”
“Okay…” He sets his fork down like he’s bracing for impact. “What is it?”
“What’s your favorite movie of all time?”
The tension drains from his shoulders so fast it’s almost comical. He lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like relief. “Jesus. You scared me.”
“Did I?” I grin innocently. “Why? What did you think I was going to ask?”
“Nothing.” He says it too quickly, but he’s smiling. “Nothing at all.”
I file that reaction away for later analysis. “Well? The movie. I need to know, and I should warn you—the wrong answer will result in swift and severe judgment.”
“What constitutes a wrong answer?”
“I’ll know it when I hear it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “That’s not fair. You’re setting me up to fail.”
“Life isn’t fair, Cole. Neither is this dinner table. Now talk.”
He considers for a moment, swirling his wine. “Die Hard.” He pauses. “And before you say anything, yes, I know how to watch a movie. I watch movies way better than I open wine.”
“Wow. Setting the bar awfully low for yourself tonight.”
“I have been humbled, Hailey. I am a humbled man.”
“Die Hard.” I narrow my eyes. “Is that your actual favorite, or is that the answer you give because it’s safely masculine and universally acceptable?”
“It’s my actual favorite.” He looks almost offended. “It’s a perfect film. Action, humor, Alan Rickman being the best villain of all time. Plus, it’s a Christmas movie, which makes it seasonally versatile.”
“Oh God, you’re one of those people.”
“One of what people?”
“The Die-Hard-is-a-Christmas-movie people. You probably have strong opinions about whether a hot dog is a sandwich.”
“It’s obviously not a sandwich. The bread is connected.”
“Wrong.” I point my fork at him. “A hot dog is a taco.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then bursts out laughing—a warm, loud, completely unguarded sound. It transforms his whole face, makes him look younger, somehow.
“A taco,” he repeats. “That’s…actually kind of brilliant.”
“Your surprise at my genius is duly noted.” I take another bite of steak. “Okay, your turn. Ask me something important. And it has to be important.”
Cole considers this, his expression thoughtful. “Okay. If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
“That’s a good one.” I tap my chin, genuinely considering. “Tacos. And not just because of the hot dog thing. Tacos are a perfect food delivery system. You can put anything in a taco. Breakfast taco. Dessert taco. Regular taco. It’s the world’s most versatile food group.”
His face drops, but I see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Tacos aren’t a food group.”
“They should be. I’m starting a petition.”
“I’ll refuse to sign it.”
“This is why I like you.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks. Was that too abrupt? “I mean—”
“You like me, huh?” He’s grinning now, clearly delighted by my slip. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He leans back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “So what else should I know about you? Besides your aggressive stance on tacos.”
“I’m an excellent parallel parker,” I offer. “Like, unreasonably good. It’s my one true talent.”
“That’s a very specific skill to be proud of.”
“You say that now, but wait until you’re in a tight parking situation and I nail it on the first try. You’ll be impressed.”
“I’m already impressed.”
The way he says it, looking directly at me with those vibrant hazel eyes, makes my stomach flip.
Fuck, he’s hot.
“Your turn,” I say, because I need to redirect before I combust. “Tell me something random. A fact about Cole Matthews that I couldn’t find on Google.”
“You’ve googled me?”
“Everyone googles everyone. Don’t pretend you haven’t googled me.”
His expression flickers—that same hint of something complicated I noticed earlier. “Fair enough.”
“So? Random fact. Go.”
“I can juggle,” he says after a moment. “I taught myself when I was twelve because I thought it would impress girls.”
“Did it?”
“Not even once.”