Page 35 of Ciaran

Footsteps pad across the floor before she draws back the door.

“Oh, hey. Aren’t you working today?”

“Later on. I wondered if you wanted to grab some breakfast. Sorry I’ve not been around much. I’ve been working back-to-back shifts.”

Liar.

A look of relief crosses her face. “And there was me thinking you’ve been avoiding me.”

I have, and seeing your relief, I deserve a punch in the face for it.

“So, breakfast?” I repeat, ignoring her correct assessment of my behavior since the sailing trip.

“Sure. Let me get my sneakers on. Come on in.”

Although she’s staying in my brother’s room, and I’ve been inside his space lots of times, it feels weird being here knowing that Millie is sleeping in his bed. I glance around, taking in the odd little feminine touches she’s added: a photo frame of her parents on the nightstand, a reed diffuser on the dresser which smells of lemon, thyme, and rosemary, a small wooden jewelry box.

“I hope it’s okay to have a few personal things scattered around,” she says. “It’s nothing that can’t be cleared away in a few minutes.”

“Of course it is.” I wander across to the nightstand and pick up the photograph. “Have you seen your parents since that night?”

“No. But now Tanner knows I’m back in New York, I’m planning to visit them at their house soon.”

Seeing an opening, I ask, “He hasn’t been in touch, then?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

Her lips lift slightly when she bends down to tie her sneakers. Once that’s done, she slings her purse over her shoulder. I step forward, remove it, then place it over her head, fixing the strap diagonally across her body. Her brows arrow inward.

“I’m a cop, remember. Safety first.”

I release the collar of her jacket from beneath the strap, and my thumb skims the delicate skin of her neck. I pause. Our eyes meet. For a split second, I swear she leans in.

Clearing her throat, she readjusts the strap and takes a step back. “Ready when you are.”

A wry smile touches my lips. This waiting for her to make a move sucks, but however difficult it is for me, it’s what she needs. It’s why I didn’t control our kiss on the boat, and for all I know, that might still have been her way of saying thank you rather than anything sexual. But I am going to talk to her about it. At least then I’ll know where I stand.

We grab a bite to eat in a small café, then take a walk through Central Park. The pathways are filled with people exercising their dogs, joggers braving the last of summer, and tourists on bikes whizzing by. I stop by a bench and motion for her to sit.

“I want to talk to you.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

“You were right before. I have been avoiding you.”

“Oh?” Her fingers fiddle with a stray piece of cotton on her floaty white top. She snaps it off, rolls it into a ball, and flicks it into the breeze.

“I need to know what’s going on… between us, I mean.”

Her eyes widen. “Us?”

I rub my forehead with the tips of my fingers. “I don’t mean us, us. I mean… Jesus, fuck.”

Her lips curve into a small smile. “Spit it out, Ciaran.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

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