Page 55 of Sirens
He blinked at her, a furrow creasing his smooth brow as he looked down at her, surprise flickering in his eyes. “My usual type?” he repeated.
Maggie held her breath, silently cursing herself for bringing it up. But it was too late to take it back now. Instead, she tried to lighten the mood with a playful smile. “You know, tall, tawny, leggy, athletic raven-haired beauty in law enforcement. Um, basically the complete opposite of me?”
“Ah.” Understanding dawned on his face, and he leaned back against the counter. “Maggie, Sheriff Forrester is my boss. Don’t you?—”
“I mean if sheweren’tyour boss,” she interrupted.
“Let me finish.” And why the gravel in his tone made her feel like she’d swallowed a brick, Maggie wasn’t exactly certain. “Sheriff Forrester is my boss. We’re around each other constantly. Late nights. Early mornings. Empty parking lots. If I wanted to still be fucking her, I’d still be fucking her. Make sense?”
Well, it did right up until the not-at-all unpleasant highlight reel of two such attractive people sport-fucking all over this Hallmark postcard of a town began unfurling in her mind.
Still, a welcome change from Charlie in his pit-stained tank top, his straight, crisp armpit hair like a full set of bangs as he plucked at an orange spot above the left nipple and issued the invitation for her to smell it and tell him if it was from the chicken parm or steak pizzaiola so he would know how long he’d been wearing it.
“I suppose,” she said, fighting the urge to gnaw the inside of her lip.
“Then why don’t you look like you believe me?”
His words were meant to reassure her, but Maggie felt the twist of insecurity in her gut all the same. “An overabundance of investigative skepticism?”
From the way his eyes softened, McGarvey obviously knew it was a blatant ploy on her part but seemed to be willing to assist her in perpetuating it.
“Oh, yeah baby,” he said, positioning himself in front of her once more. “Hit me with that sexy journalist jargon.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes at him in mock censure. “Are you making fun of me, deputy?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, the traces of amusement lingering in his eyes as his gaze moved down to her mouth. “Not when I could dream about this instead.”
He traced a line down the side of her face before his knuckles brushed against her mouth. The touch was a mere flutter of contact, but it sent sparks darting up and down her spine.
His lips met hers in a gentle kiss that was all the more electrifying for its softness. He moved his hands to her waist, scooting her toward the counter’s edge before cupping her knees.
“Open them,” he ordered her. “Open your legs for me, Maggie Michaels.”
And her body complied even though her brain did not.
I’ll bet him and that tasty piece of a sheriff did it just like this after the Christmas party. On her desk. Or a file cabinet. Maybe the copier. I seen that in a movie once?—
“But if youhadto choose a type…” Maggie found herself mumbling against his lush lips.
McGarvey stilled, his next breath deep and slow.
They stayed silent for several heartbeats, a charged moment full of potential. Then he stepped closer to her, so close that the heat from his body brushed against hers.
“I know,” she said. “I know I don’t have any claim on your history, and it’s not really any of my business, but?—”
He captured her chin in a gentle grip and tipped it up until she was looking into his eyes. “My type is a woman who isn’t afraid to call me on my bullshit. My type is the kind of woman who can turn wordplay into foreplay. My type, Maggie Michaels, isyou.”
How was it possible for one man to undo decades of damage with a few simple words? She didn’t know, but gods, she was grateful for it.
“Thank you,” she whispered, realizing he probably had no idea what she was actually thanking him for.
McGarvey smiled, brushing his thumb over her lower lip. “This is all the thanks I’ll ever need.”
Their mouths were a hairsbreadth from meeting whenmore wordscame tumbling out of hers.
“So you’re saying youhaven’tbeen with anyone my size?”
McGarvey paused mid-lean, the dimple returning for an encore as he shook his head.
