Page 10 of Hot Lovin'

Quinn

Dinner is at Bella Pasta, a cozy little place on Main Street that Lottie loves, with mismatched chairs and homemade pasta dishes that smell like heaven. It’s far too quaint for my usual tastes, which is why I’ve never visited the place. But as I watch Lottie come to life, in her element in this shrine to comfort and laughter, it feels right.

“So much for keeping things low-key,” she says sheepishly as we’re finally guided to our table after greeting several local diners who recognize Lottie, me, or both of us.

I shake my head ruefully as I pull out Lottie’s chair, grateful we’re seated at a table tucked away in the corner, partially concealed by a tall potted plant. “By this time tomorrow, the gossip mill will be working overtime. By tomorrow morning, Mrs. Henderson”—my gaze slides to the elderly woman renowned for her loose lips seated with her husband near the window—“will no doubt have everyone believing that the big, bad sheriff ravished you over the ravioli.”

She smothers a laugh as Mrs. Henderson gives me a little finger wave, her other hand at her throat, clutching her pearls.

“Nothing to see here. Just two people working a case, not on a date,” Lottie teases.

“If this were a real date, I wouldn’t bring you to a pasta joint. You deserve the best. Champagne and caviar.”

Lottie wrinkles her nose. “No thanks. I prefer a milkshake and a dirty cheeseburger. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with this place. Did you know that the owner started it with one saucepan and a dream?” Her gaze moves around the dining area as she points out the pictures on the walls of the owner’s family through the generations. “Imagine that kind of courage.”

“Courage or insanity?” I quip.

“Quinn!” she protests, giving me a playful swat with her napkin, but her grin doesn’t falter. “Not everyone is as cynical as you are, you know.”

“Guilty as charged,” I concede, leaning back in my chair with a wry smile.

Taking to Lottie is easy. Easier than I expected. She has a knack for drawing me out, making me forget the shields I’ve spent years fortifying. Those shields I erected in my childhood have served me well in my line of work.

“Tell me something about you that no one else knows,” she challenges, sipping her wine with an expectant look.

“Something about me?” I repeat, buying time. My life isn’t exactly an open book.

“Yep. And don’t say it’s classified, Sheriff.” Her playful tone does something strange to my insides, twisting them up in knots.

“All right,” I relent, scratching the back of my neck. “I used to write poetry in high school.”

“Poetry?” Her eyes widen with surprise and delight. “Quinn, that’s... adorable.”

“Let’s keep that between us,” I grumble, but the embarrassment is worth the delighted laughter that spills from her lips. I know she isn’t laughing at me or my former pastime but with pure, joyful delight.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she promises, holding up her pinky like a kid sealing a deal.

“Your turn,” I say, leaning back in my chair and allowing my eyes to trail over her. She looks fucking edible in a pale blue dress that dips to a V in front, highlighting her spectacular cleavage. Her hair gleams in the low lighting, which gives her skin a tempting luster and makes her eyes look almost amber.

“Hmmm, something no one else knows,” she muses.

My gaze falls to her lips, where she taps a finger thoughtfully. Everything in me aches to kiss those lips again. The kiss we shared earlier wasn’t enough. Not even close.

“Okay, in for a penny…” She takes a breath. “I secretly give funny names to everyday objects.”

I frown. “What?”

“Ugh. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. Okay, so, for example, I call my favorite coffee mug ‘Sir Sips-a-Lot.’ And the TV remote is ‘The Commander.’ Oh, and the microwave is ‘The Zapinator.’

I arch an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Your vacuum cleaner is ‘The Dirt Devourer.’”

Her eyes widen. “Yes! How did you guess?”

I stare at her, speechless.

Lottie snorts and dissolves into laughter. “I’m joking. Of course, I don’t call it ‘The Dirt Devourer.’” She pauses. “I call it ‘The Crumb Crusader.’”

My mouth twitches, and I’m suddenly laughing with her. Warmth washes over me, starting in my stomach and spreading to my chest, healing cracks I didn’t even know were there. It brings a lightness with it, deepening my connection with the woman in front of me.

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