Page 30 of Keeping You
At the last second, I spin and cross to the couch, perching on the end, while he takes the other.
“So,” I say, setting my glass down and turning to face him fully, adjusting my posture like it matters. “How's the sheriff business going?”
Even as the words leave my lips, I’m aware of the quiet sizzle that hums between us, an undercurrent that promises there’s more to tonight than chicken and wine. But I forge on, desperateto get us back on track with this date, which is not really a date, but is quickly becoming a real, live date.
He chuckles.
God, even his laugh is sexy.
“Slow. Nothing like Chicago.”
“Do you miss it? The city?”
His expression shifts, something dark flickering behind his eyes. “Parts of it.”
I sense there’s more to the story, but before I can ask, the oven timer beeps its five-minute warning. Where in the world did the last twenty-five go? My stomach flutters as I realize how much I’ve been enjoying just being near him.
“Excuse me.” I busy myself with getting dinner on the table, but it’s a struggle to focus. Every glance at him makes my tummy do this funny dip, and the practicalities of plating the food and topping up drinks suddenly seem like a thin excuse to avoid admitting what’s happening.
And I’m not sure I want to admit what’s happening.
Once we’re seated across from each other, with the food between us, something shifts. The conversation flows more easily than I expected. We discuss the library, his new deputies, and town gossip. We catch up. We talk about everyday things, like the stray cat I’ve seen wandering around town; he’s seen it too. I laugh more than I have in weeks, my nerves replaced by a disarming warmth.
Every word, every happy curve of her lips, every slight touch is charged with something I can't name. Or maybe don’t want to. But I find myself leaning toward him when he speaks, cataloging the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. And when our gazes lock, I glance away first, afraid he'll see the truth.
Oh, Lord. This isn’t a fake date at all.
“That was incredible,” Luke says, setting his napkin beside his empty plate. The candlelight catches the hopeful interest inhis eyes, and something flutters in my stomach that has nothing to do with Mom's roast chicken.
We clean up together in companionable silence, his hands careful with the delicate dinnerware, our fingers occasionally brushing as we pass dishes between us. The domesticity of it feels dangerous, like we're playing house in a way that's becoming less pretend by the minute.
“Dessert in the living room?” I suggest gathering the fresh fruit and cream I prepared earlier. “More comfortable than these dining chairs.”
Once settled on the couch—this time with barely a breath of space between us—I hand him a dish of strawberries and peaches with a dollop of fresh cream.
A comfortable silence stretches between us as we savor the sweet fruit. The evening has shifted somehow, the casual energy of dinner giving way to something more consequential, and Luke's eyes have that faraway look I noticed earlier when I mentioned his job in Chicago. I watch him for a moment and see the way his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
“You never answered my question from before,” I say gently. “About Chicago. Do you really miss it?”
He takes the last bite, lips glistening from the cream. His hand lifts the wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid like he's searching for courage in its depths. Something in his expression makes me apprehensive.
“I miss the work,” he says finally, voice quieter than before. “The challenge, the rush of it. But I don't miss why I left.”
“Which was?” I ask gently, fearful of what he may say.
He hesitates, staring into the glass for what seems like forever. When he speaks again, his voice is filled with anguish. “My partner was killed six months ago.”
The words land heavily in the quiet room, and my chest constricts. Without thinking, I reach out, letting my hand rest lightly on his thigh. “Oh, Luke. I’m so sorry.”
“We'd been partners for five years. We became detectives at the same time and got paired together. That night, we were responding to a domestic dispute. A routine call in a neighborhood we’d been to many times before. It wasn’t technically our call, but we were in the area, so we stopped to help patrol because we knew the guy. Only this time, he had a gun. He was high, paranoid, and angry. I was checking on his wife in the back of the house when I heard shots from the front.”
I shift closer, taking his hand in mine. “It wasn’t your fault,” I whisper, though the words are inadequate.
“I should have been there. Should’ve had his back. Hell, we shouldn’t have been there at all.” His knuckles whiten around the wine glass. “By the time I got to the front, it was too late. Stu was down. The patrol unit had already taken the perpetrator into custody. Stu died in the ambulance.”
“Luke—”
“I couldn’t stay after that. Couldn’t walk those streets knowing I’d failed him.” His eyes finally meet mine, haunted and raw. “Mayor Aldridge had already reached out to me after my father died. At the time, I wasn’t interested. But after Stu… I called her back and asked if the position was still available.”
