Page 16 of Vipers & Roses

“Fine,” I growl, slamming the door on her smug face. I’m relieved I’m still wearing my grimy garden jeans and a tee shirt, so it won’t look like I’m trying to make an impression as I ‘accidentally’ bump into them. This is so embarrassing.

As I approach the café, I keep my eyes low and stride casually, avoiding searching for them through the window. When I open the door, the scent of coffee and baked goods hits me fast, and I relax a little. There’s a gentle murmur of diners chatting over their meals, and I glance to see if I can spot the men as I approach the counter.

“Two large Cokes to take away,” I order. I prefer something fatty like a milkshake to remedy yesterday’s alcoholic binge, but that will take too long to make.

The server says it’ll take a few minutes for the Cokes to be made as I wait with my back to the diners. With the Cokes finally in my hands, I turn towards the door and do a sweeping scan across the diners. Steely blue eyes connect with mine, and nerves quiver along my thighs.

He’s sitting at a table on the far side of the room facing me, while Cormac sits opposite him with his back to me. His forearms are resting on the table, and a coffee cup is in front of him. In this tiny moment, the walls seem to close in on me.

It’s not the way he looks at me that’s the problem—it’s what he symbolizes. Internal chaos overwhelms my body, and I flee out the door.

I have approximately two minutes’ walk from the café to my car to pull myself together, so Z can’t tell I’m upset. I can do this. I’m strong, yet pathetic, so pathetic.

“And?” Z asks excitedly when I return with her bloody Coke.

I take a therapeutic breath to ease my heart before climbing inside the Corolla so she can’t read my angst.

“It was him, the detective,” I answer, handing her the Coke. “The silver fox.”

“Did you talk?” she asks as I start the engine.

“No, he was too busy talking to…I guess Cormac is his son or nephew or whatever,” I explain. “Cormac had his back to me.”

Z looks confused. “So, you didn’t go up to talk to your Friday date?”

“No,” I sigh. “Can we just drop it?”

“Sure,” she agrees, taking a sip of her Coke through the straw, then mumbles something under her breath that I don’t catch.

I drive out of the parking lot and onto the busy street toward our favorite grocery store, and she’s silent the entire way. It isn’t until I park and turn the engine off that she pipes up with, “You’re not ready to go there, are you?”

“No,” I answer. “Not yet.”

9

I slept well on a full stomach of organic lamb chops and leafy green salad and rose early to drive to the Olympic pool for a swim. When I receive the big money from Smiler, I buy from the local organic store, but when I’m in between Smiler pays, I purchase my food from the discount food store. The crappy processed stuff that tastes like rubber.

It’s essential that I keep my head clear and on target and that I never lose sight of why I’m here—seeing Det. Gabrielle could’ve sent me over the edge yesterday, but it didn’t. I didn’t let it. Perhaps it’s because we didn’t speak, or maybe I’ve made progress and am stronger than I thought. I’m writing off the chemical-infused bender of days ago as a glitch in my software and have now moved on.

As usual, I discreetly scan the pool area for the Lion and spot two coaches walking alongside the far lane, closely examining the swimming style of the student in the water. I wonder if Cormac is here, too, but it’s hard to tell when all you see are their swimming caps bobbing up and down.

There’s something about the scent of chlorine that both enthralls me and also turns my stomach. The smell reminds me of summer days lounging by the pool or the many races I won. It’s a reminder of good times and bad, but mostly good. Today, I choose to focus on the good stuff.

I find a bench by the pool, strip down into my lapis-blue bathing suit buried under my sweats, and shove all my golden hair into a little rubber cap. Walking over to the medium pace lane, I do a quick scan of people sitting in chairs watching over the trainers. My gaze gravitates to the viewing box behind darkened glass and detects a figure standing there. I can’t see the definition of his face, so I can’t know if it’s him.

Diving into the turquoise, the coolness of the water is therapy against my bare skin, and as my arms automatically pull into the freestyle stroke, I feel the tug on my arm muscles. It didn’t take long before I reached the end of the pool, and I turn-rolled under the water to stretch out onto my second length.

After several lengths, I pull my goggles off and climb out at the end closest to where I left my towel and bag. As I climb out, I notice a topless man sitting on my bench with wet, messy dark hair, leaning over with his forearms on his knees. Cormac Bernardi – Irish mom, Italian dad. He gives me a little wave as those sky blues watch my bare legs walk toward him.

“Hey,” I chirp. “I wondered if you were here.”

“I’m on a break,” he says, rising to his feet and stretching out his long arms, placing his hands behind his head, puffing out his bare chest, giving me tingles in my nether regions. It’s a superb body, both from an athletic and proportion standpoint. My word, he’s been gifted with some fabulous genes.

There’s a little smile there, just for me, as he stands close, our bare skin peppered in water droplets almost touching. He’s hungry to touch me, eager to run that enormous hand over the small of my back. But he refrains, showing incredible control that I appreciate.

“What are you doing today?” he asks, smiling with those blue eyes as they run over my lips and neck.

“I’ve got a couple of classes in the glasshouse this morning,” I say enthusiastically.

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