Page 7 of The Gathering Storm

“You haven’t been.”

Which he by golly already knew. He’d received a kit in the mail weeks ago and tossed it on his kitchen counter with a pile of other junk mail, where it rested still. And damn it all, he should’ve already gotten around to taking care of that. Duty demanded it of him, to his family, to his People, to the need they had to preserve their heritage and keep themselves safe from an ever dangerous world.

On the other hand, if he’d sent the sample back already, he might not’ve ever had the pleasure of standing across from the woman of his dreams while wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts.

“Simpler to mail a reminder,” he said.

“Simpler, yes. Not as rewarding as a personal visit.” Her icy eyes flicked down his body and back up again, and a small smile tilted her luscious mouth. She nodded toward the interior of his apartment, a regal tilt of her head. “May I?”

Oh, yeah, she could. He stepped back, welcomed the brush of her coat against his bare, chilled skin, shut the door behind her. She sauntered into the room, cool demeanor firmly in place, every inch a war-hardened Daughter as she surveyed his living room. Cushy leather sofa set squarely in the middle of the floor next to a glass-topped coffee table, the row of bookshelves against the far wall, the entertainment center housing his TV, the movies and games stacked untidily around it.

The fine layer of dust, the empty beer bottle he’d neglected to recycle last night, and his gym shoes and socks thrown on the floor, exactly where he’d left them.

He scowled at them. Good thing his mother was out of the country. She’d skin him for inviting a woman into his apartment when it wasn’t picture perfect.

But hey, at least the original landscapes dotted along the eggshell colored walls were straight. The dust on their frames was hardly noticeable from where they stood.

Sigrid turned in a slow half circle and stopped, facing him. “Very nice.”

He nearly heaved a sigh of relief. Great. She hadn’t noticed the dust. “It’s home. Can I get you something? A coke or some water?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She handed him the paper bag, stripped off her gloves, and shrugged out of her jacket, patiently exchanged her outerwear for the bag, and waited for him to hang the jacket on the hook by the door. “This won’t take long. Do you have plans for lunch?”

He paused with his hands on the sleeves of her coat, in the middle of smoothing them out. “Ah, no. Why?”

“You do now. Sit.”

“Wait.”

He scrubbed a hand over his hair, mussing it as he rewound the conversation through his befuddled mind. Sigrid knocking on the door, his hard-on still hard, DNA kit and polite niceties, the whiff of her perfume teasing him where it lingered in the air. Nothing about a meal. Hunh. Maybe he’d missed something.

“What plans do I have again?” he asked.

“Lunch. Unless you prefer an evening date.”

“I have to work,” he murmured. “Are you asking me out?”

Her mouth quirked up at one corner. The half smile softened her icy beauty. “I’m not asking. Sit, Will. I’m expected at work soon.”

She wasn’t asking.

A tiny thrill pulsed through him. She wasn’t asking for a date. She was telling him what she expected him to do, as if she had any right to control his actions. He inhaled a shaky breath and walked to the couch on legs that weren’t quite steady. Sank into the plush leather, tried to reel in the hope poking through two years of rejection, and failed.

Who was he kidding? It was a dream come true. He’d be a fool not to grab hold of her interest while it lasted and enjoy every single moment he could before she discarded him and sent him on his merry way.

She pulled medical gloves out of the bag and snapped them into place on her slim hands. “Have you a preference among the local restaurants?”

He shook his head, too stunned to respond around his hammering heart and the heat coursing through his blood.

“What time does your shift start tonight?” she asked.

“Two.” He shook his head again, attempting clarity, and was unsurprised when it eluded him. “I have to be on the floor by three, but I usually go in an hour or two early to deal with paperwork.”

“An early lunch then. Franklin?”

“Yeah,” he said, and grinned. This was really happening. Sigrid really wanted to go out with him. Hot damn and hallelujah. Sometimes the Great Mother did answer prayers. “There’s this place on the Highlands Road. Makes great pizza.”

“Pizza it is.” She pulled the kit out of the bag, dug into it, extracted a cotton swab sealed in paper, and ripped it open. “Open wide. A good scraping ensures we won’t have to do this again.”

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