Page 25 of Riggs
“You were out cold,” he says. “Figured we could either eat real food or you could take a nap and then I could convince you to eat real food.”
“You got soup,” I say, sitting up, suddenly aware that I drooled on a five-star pillow. “You’re dangerous.”
“Tomato,” he confirms, like that clarifies my entire life. “Grilled cheese with a respectable crunch. Sliders, because I like my chances. Cake because I like being right.”
I pad barefoot to the table, lift a lid, inhale. “Marry me,” I sigh at the bowl.
He snorts. “Eat first. Propose later.”
We sit side by side at the window table like we’ve done this a thousand times—knees bumping, shoulders brushing, his thigh a steady line of heat against mine. The city below pulses neon over grid. The sky is big in a way Saint Pierce forgets.
I dunk my grilled cheese into tomato soup and groan indecently. He looks at my mouth like it’s a tactical problem and then reaches for his slider like he’s saving us both.
“Tell me why you would propose to a man for him ordering you soup.”
I smile. “My father used to make me grilled cheese and tomato soup whenever I was sad. It’s like he knew it would cheer me up.”
Riggs nods. “And it did?”
I smile wider. “Always.”
“Where’s your father now?”
I glance down for a beat, staring into my soup like it holds all the answers. “He died when I was young.” I set my sandwich down. “Cancer. It was horrible watching a strong man turn weak right before your very eyes.”
“Lost my mother to cancer too.” His eyes gloss over. “It sucks.”
I appreciate him for not telling me he’s sorry. So many people give me the pity look and tell me how sorry they are for my loss. Not Riggs. It’s because he’s been right where I am too. “It fucking sucks,” I say with a small chuckle. “Now, tell mesomething funny,” I say, because laughter is my favorite armor and also because I want to hear what his version of funny is.
“Jax once named his drones after Motown singers and forgot to change the labels before a PD demo,” he says. “Chief standing there while I’m calling ‘Aretha’ off a roof like it’s normal.”
I choke on a crouton. “Please tell me there's a video.”
“Rae has everything,” he says, deadpan. “She’s building a retirement plan out of our mistakes.”
We eat too much. We argue about the correct fry-to-ketchup ratio (fifty-fifty, obviously), about whether soup is a meal (yes), about whether the cake is worth the sugar crash (absolutely). He pretends to be grumpy when I feed him a forkful. But I know he isn’t. When he slides the ginger ale closer without comment, my chest does the expanding/settling thing again.
“Movie?” he offers, like this is a thing we do.
“Funny,” I say. “No explosions.”
He gives me a look that saysthat’s a hate crimeand then queues up the kind of smart comedy that makes both of us laugh out loud. We migrate to the bed without discussing it, plates banished, lights dimmed to one lamp that turns his jaw into something sculptors dream about. I curl into his side because of course I do. He fits an arm under my shoulders, hand on my far upper arm, solid and easy. The movie throws a soft flicker across his knuckles.
I try to pay attention to the movie. It’s hard to hear punch lines when I can hear his heartbeat under my ear.
“This is cheating,” I murmur. “You smelling like citrus and laughing with your chest while pretending you’re not cuddling me.”
“Not pretending,” he says. “And the citrus is your shampoo.”
“Don’t ruin it,” I whisper, and tip my face up.
He looks down and the movie keeps talking but we don’t. Something in his eyes shifts fromprotecttowantand that’s all it takes. He leans in and kisses me slowly. There’s no rush, no audience, no tactical motive. His mouth is warm and certain, tasting faintly of ginger and salt. The kiss builds the way good music does—layers, a rhythm we find together, a tease of tongue that makes my pulse trip. My hand curves over his jaw, slides into his beard, and he makes a small sound when I tug lightly and I feel it low in my stomach.
He rolls, not on top, not away—just enough to brace above me, careful, always careful. The weight of him is a kind of safety I didn’t know I needed. His palm cups my cheek while the other splays at my waist, thumb rubbing slow circles through the thin cotton of my T-shirt like he’s learning a pattern he plans to keep. I hook a knee over his thigh and he exhales against my mouth.
“Vanessa,” he says into the kiss. It’s both a warning and a prayer.
“I know,” I breathe, kissing him again because the word doesn’t mean stop. It meansI’m right here with you.I open for him and he takes what I offer, deepening the kiss until the room spins out of control.
