Page 16 of Welker

“We’ll see about that.” Although Welk had a point, Moira didn’t like being dictated to.

He changed his tune, put on puppy-dog eyes, and began cajoling.

“Come on, Bliss. Am I that bad? I promise I don’t leave the toilet seat up, nor do I prance around in my underwear. And even though I don’t cook, I have a freezer full of stuff my mother has made for me. Plus, I’ve bribed a few of the local restaurants into delivering as far out as my place, so we won’t starve,” he teased.

“I cook,” she let slip, and almost instantly regretted it as Welker’s brows went up.

“You do?” he marveled, brightening. Then he sobered, speculating. “You mean like, hotdogs and hamburgers on the grill, cook?” he questioned with a quirked brow.

“No,” Moira clarified with a sigh. “I mean like pesto pork tenderloin and chicken piccata cook,” she corrected him, although she wasn’t sure why.

Maybe, she told herself, it was because she wanted to seem worthy of taking up space in his home; earn her keep.

“Hot damn,” he said, his smile gaining wattage again. “Then when we go to town tomorrow, I’ll spring for everything we need to stock the house so you can feed us.”

He licked his lips, which made her focus on those lush bows.

A rare blush threatened to move up into her cheeks, so she turned to her truck and yanked open the door before he could witness the unaccustomed color.

“Fine. But I’m paying. And don’t get too excited, Vestore,” she grumped over her shoulder as she slid into her seat. “I don’t do dessert.”

Welker chuckled as he got into the truck.

CHAPTER SIX

They left Moira’s yard and pulled onto the dirt road that led away from her property, reaching Welk’s truck, a quarter mile away. They then began their two-vehicle, thirteen-minute journey toward his house. Welker reveled in the fact that he’d won the skirmish of getting Moira to stay with him, while at the same time knowing there was still a lot of battle left to fight. He didn’t think for a minute that she’d wholeheartedly conceded. In fact, her stellar brain was right now, more than likely, plotting on how to spend the fewest hours under his roof, and get herself off to someplace far, far away from him.

Welker chuckled, feeling…light.

Huh. Maybe his sister and Sabira had a point. He relished Moira’s company, and was looking forward to their squabbles. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed ball-busting he enjoyed, coming from the mouth of the taciturn woman. That certainly was the part of being a SEAL that Welker missed most. Other than being a coordinated unit, the team he’d had to leave behind because of his injury, excelled at trash-talk and teasing; things that he recalled most fondly. Sure, he got some of that with SWAT, but his Maine team wasn’t together 24/7 like the unit with which Welker had been deployed. And there was a huge difference between occasionally stepping his toes into an irreverent pool of teasing, versus being completely immersed under the constant deluge that had been his SEAL team’s modus operandi.

Welker loved his day-job with the Bangor PD, but he didn’t necessarily hang with many of those colleagues. His fault, Welker figured, because he spent his free time, instead, with his core group of buddies; Cisco, Mike, Doug, and Kyle.

That had been fine until they’d all started falling like dominoes, finding their significant others. Now, Welker was at loose ends more often than not. Which was why—he told himself—he was so pumped to have Moira at his place.

The hard question, of course, remained to be answered.

Was he genuinely entranced by the enigmatic woman, or was it the thrill of the chase regarding his squad-mate who wouldn’t be an easy conquest?

Welker had certainly been pondering the dual possibilities, but had set them aside because the easier query was…did he love the verbal sword-play in which they engaged? The answer being, one-hundred-fucking-percent. So for now, he’d roll with that titillating fact, and bide his time to see if his as-yet-undeclared feelings for Moira grew, or fizzled.

Welker’s eyes narrowed as a single motorcycle headlight appeared on the horizon, approaching on the long, but otherwise empty road. He hadn’t thought there’d be any more trouble tonight…uh, this morning, but his senses were now tingling. It could be nobody, but…

He hit the phone connection on his dash and quickly reached Moira.

“Yeah?” she clipped.

“Incoming, Bliss,” he told her, clenching his jaw. “I’m not sure if it’s an enemy, or not, but there’s a bike headed our way. Close the distance between us and stick to my tail, just in case.”

“On it,” she said, not arguing, for which Welker was grateful. Moira might crack his chops off the job, but she knew enough not to discount his cop-instincts when shit was about to hit the fan.

She moved up so her bumper was no more than twelve inches from his now slowed-down ass. He pulled his firearm from his shoulder holster and laid it on the seat next to him. He knew Moira was probably doing the same.

“Fifty feet and closing,” he told her.

“I see him,” Moira answered. “You think he’s a straggler who’s late for the party we just disbanded, or a new threat?”

“Good question,” he replied warily. “I hope we have the answer, soon.”

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