Page 45 of More than Need

“I didn’t put you in this position,” Riley said, dragging his thumb across Dawson’s bottom lip. The cold from the ice cream lingered. “You chose to confront me, drunk, I might add”—Dawson’s eyes prickled with irritation—“and then you chose to continue to invade my space with a half-assed apology that was more about making yourself feel better than making amends.”

“There better be a ‘but’ in there somewhere, or the couple that keeps staring at us is about to watch a completely different scene. One with blood and the need for an ambulance.”

“And you keep threatening an officer of the law.”

“I think your idea of the law is a lot more flexible than mine,” Dawson murmured, tilting his head and teasing Riley with a brush of his lips.

“You think so?” He couldn’t deny it. His new relationship with Gideon made it obvious he obeyed the law only when convenient for him. Gideon was a mistake and a dream, all at once. A man that Riley had been infatuated with at a young, impressionable age. One now in his arms. Better men than him wouldn’t have been able to resist. And Riley wasn’t a good man to begin with.

Dawson pressed the tips of his fingers to Riley’s throat, above his collar. “You’re not anything like I thought you would be.”

Riley didn’t ask him what he meant. It wouldn’t change anything; he could only ever be himself.

The corner of Dawson’s mouth lifted briefly. “You fascinate me. I wish you didn’t, because all of this is so fucking complicated. I can’t help myself. I want to kiss you as much as I want to punch you in the mouth, and I want to know more about you.”

“Like what?” He had nothing to say about himself that didn’t involve his family or his work. He didn’t have anything more than that. Hadn’t nurtured a life beyond that. No past relationships. No hobbies.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“That’s your question? That’s completely asinine and—” Dawson put a hand over Riley’s mouth, and Riley glared.

“Just answer it.”

Riley tugged Dawson’s wrist to remove his hand. “Green.”

Gideon returned then, curiosity in his own warm brown eyes. He slid into Dawson’s vacated seat.

Dawson gave Riley a sly look that instantly put him on alert. “What’s Gideon’s?”

Those eyes saw too much. Surprisingly clever, considering he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“What’s my what?” Gideon asked. He stretched out, his ankle resting against Riley’s. “They said they’d bring the food out when it’s ready.”

Riley contemplated not answering. “Yellow,” he said eventually.

Dawson rewarded him with a kiss. “We’re playing twenty questions. The first was favourite colours.”

“Curious,” Gideon said. He gathered his own drink—an iced coffee that didn’t have all the drippings like Dawson’s—and took a sip from his straw. “You know my favourite colour?”

“I pay attention to my detectives’ preferences.” Maybe he paid a little more attention to Gideon; loose cannons required extra supervision. Not merely because he could stare at Gideon all day, like a painting in a museum that sucked in his soul and evoked emotions that stayed with him long after he’d left.

Gideon nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, what’s Grady’s, then?”

“Is this an interrogation or a lunch out?” Riley asked stiffly.

Gideon smiled secretively, still sucking obscenely on his straw. “What number are we on?”

“The first one.” Dawson stretched his arm out behind Riley. “We should keep count. Anyone got a pen?”

“Sorry, nope,” Gideon replied.

Dawson looked at Riley as if the answer would be any different.

“No.”

“Don’t you guys have to take notes and shit when you’re at a crime scene? I’ve seen them do that in TV shows.”

“Don’t believe everything that you see,” Riley said with a dry look. “Some will use pen and paper if that’s their preference. Most of us use our phones. Or there are tablets that can be signed out.”

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