Page 23 of Mine To Break
“But you didn’t. It was my mistake, not yours.” A muscle ticked in his cheek and his shoulders strained, so she knew he hadn’t accepted her explanation. “I’m from New Orleans.” She deliberately let her accent shape her words, adding to her story. “My uncle ran an alligator farm when I was little, and I was fascinated by his tales. I thought he was exaggerating, but then I finally saw him do a show once at a little county fair, and I never doubted him again. He could handle his gators like they were pets. Put his head in their gaping jaws, just like you hear about at those big gator shows. Never had an ounce of fear. I asked him about it and he said if you knew the gator, you could handle it. But you had to know it like your mama. You had to be able to read its smallest signals and know whether it was sleepy and lazy, the perfect time to handle it for a show, or if it was hungry or interested in a hunt. If you couldn’t tell, then you had no business messing with a gator.”
Some of the tension eased from Colby’s shoulders, but his eyes were still shuttered and hard. The eyes of a soldier. The eyes of a man who’d go off to war without looking back, even knowing he’d die, because he’d given an oath to protect the people back home. But he was listening, and she could work with that.
She lifted her hand and held down her pinkie and ring fingers. “I said, ‘But Uncle Robbie, what happened to your hand? Didn’t a gator take your fingers?’ He nodded and smiled, without an ounce of anger or fear. ‘Yep. He got me good, ‘cause I wasn’t listening. My mistake, not his.’”
“I could have taken your head clean off, not a few fingers,” Colby grumbled, finally dropping his eyes.
She leaned closer and pressed her forehead to his. “And it would have been my mistake, not yours. When I wrangle with a gator, I have to respect his teeth. That’s the risk that I accept.”
“I don’t. I can’t. If I hurt you—”
“Colby,” she interrupted gently. “I was a fool for sneaking up on you like that. I knew you’ve had some issues with PTSD. That alone should have told me to be more careful when waking you up. Plus you’re a detective, who worked most of the night probably on some murder. God only knows what violence and horror you see everyday on the streets. You need your gator teeth just to get through everyday unscathed. It’s my job to respect those teeth, not ignore your signals.”
His tension bled away from his shoulders and he relaxed against her, though he made no move to put his hands on her. “I still hate that I scared you.”
“A little excitement is good, and a healthy dose of respect for your training is definitely a good thing. I’m glad I got to see you in action, even for just a second.” She slid her arms down his back and squeezed his buttocks firmly in both hands. That brought his head up in a hurry, the grim icy quickly melting to a sultry smolder. “You’re quite something to look at, Detective Wade. Maybe I should ask to do a ride-along with you and your partner sometime.”
He choked back a laugh. “Elias would love that.”
She kneaded his buttocks, watching the way his nostrils flared and the lines of strain and worry slowly eased from around his eyes. So she saw the moment he realized that he’d actually gone to his knees for her. A very submissive thing to do. “If this is all I had to do to get you on your knees in front of me, then I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Even if you kicked me in the head first.”
He didn’t answer, and she could read the questions and doubt streaming through his eyes. Was he really going to make it this easy for her? Was he really submissive? Half a man (or less) in his eyes? How far would he go if she asked? All things he was thinking about right now. Guessing he’d need some time to process everything, she released him and stood, easing around him to head back to the kitchen.
“Let’s eat. I’m starving. So how do you take your coffee?”
He rose up to follow her, grabbing the cup she’d set on the nightstand for him. He took a drink and let out a pleased sigh as he followed her. “That depends.”
She tipped her head to the bar, indicating he could sit there and watch. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she could manage eggs and grits just fine. Mama would have a heart attack if she knew her daughter served somebody frozen biscuits, but anything that required special cooking utensils like pastry blenders was beyond her patience. She could do anything if she set her mind to it. She just would rather have someone else do the baking, especially if she was the one going to eat it.
Pouring the beaten eggs into the skillet, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “On what?”
There was that cocky grin she loved so much. “On whether it’s good coffee or bad. Good, I can drink black. Or I can doctor it up and make it as good as dessert. I’m fine with either. Bad coffee, I have to load up with all the cream and sugar I can stir in, and let me tell you, the precinct goes through a ton of sugar and creamer packets. This coffee has a nice bite to it.”
“It’s got chicory in it. I buy it from Cafe Du Monde. There’s creamer in the door of the fridge if you need to cut the bitterness a bit.”
“Nah, this is fine. Great.”
“Do you cook much?”
“Not really. Never had the teaching.”
Stirring the eggs, she waited a moment, hoping the silence would encourage him to keep talking. She wanted to crack open that hard soldier/cop exterior and find something delicate and tasty on the inside.
“I was too busy in sports and helping with chores on the ranch to do much in the kitchen. Alli was always the one to help Mom.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
“Three sisters, all older: Jessica, Allison, and Rachel. Dad always joked they’d had to keep trying until they had a boy, but Jess was better on a horse than I ever was.”
Mal split out the eggs, sprinkled with cheese, and grabbed the plate of biscuits to take over to the breakfast nook. Colby didn’t need her request to grab the two plates and bring them for her. What surprised her was that he then took her cup and his, filling both back up with coffee. She sat down, even more pleased when he glanced at her to see if she had anything else to add. “Just a splash of half and half.”
He set her cup down but hesitated before sitting. “Should I put some pants on first?”
She chuckled, arching a brow at him. “I like the scenery, unless you’re uncomfortable.”
“Are you kidding?” He sat down and stared at the plate, practically drooling, but he didn’t pick up his fork until she did. “I’ve eaten an MRE at the bottom of a foxhole, sitting in a foot of rain and mud in forty degree temps. This is not uncomfortable.”
She cracked open a biscuit and slathered on some orange marmalade. “I didn’t think Afghanistan got that cold.”
