Page 49 of Penalty Kiss
"Not just because you're there," I clarify quickly, though that's a big part of it.
"But because it's lived-in. Real. There are coffee rings on the counter and books stacked everywhere and those mirrors in your bedroom that makes me think all kinds of inappropriate thoughts."
Her cheeks flush pink. "You noticed the mirrors?"
"Darling, I'm concussed, not blind." I zip up the duffel and sling it over my shoulder "Those mirrors have been giving me ideas since the moment I saw them."
"Ideas?"
I cross to where she's standing, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes. "Ideas about what you'd look like watching yourself come apart in my hands. What I'd look like worshipping every inch of that gorgeous body while you watch."
Her lips part, and I watch her pupils dilate. "That's..."
"That's what?" I prompt, my voice grows huskier.
"Obscene."
"Yeah. Just the way I like it." I smirk, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, letting my thumb linger against her cheek.
"You want to get out of here? Or should I show you what I had in mind?”
She nods, then shakes her head half-heartedly, not trusting her voice, and I have to bite back a groan at the way she looks right now—flushed and wanting and trying so hard to pretend she's not affected.
"Come on then, Rookie. Let’s stop for groceries on the way home."
The grocery store is a revelation.
Not because Cedar Falls Market is particularly impressive—it's standard small-town fare, complete with hand-written sale signs and a checkout counter that doubles as the local gossip hub.
It's a revelation because watching Tara navigate the aisles is like watching a master class in memory management.
She doesn't use a list. She doesn't pause to think about what she needs. She just moves through the store with fluid efficiency, grabbing items with the precision of someone who has the entire inventory mapped in her head.
"Tomatoes, but not those—they were delivered Tuesday, which means they're already overripe," she murmurs, selecting different ones from the display. "Bread from the bakery section, but only if Janet made it today. Her Saturday loaves are always better than her Friday ones."
I trail behind her with the cart, equal parts impressed and aroused by her competence.
"How do you know when the tomatoes were delivered?" I ask.
"I work at the bistro. I see the delivery trucks." She adds pasta to the cart, then glances at me. "Is this weird? The memory thing?"
"It's amazing," I tell her honestly. "You've got a supercomputer in that beautiful head of yours, and you use it to make perfect grocery selections."
She flushes, pleased by the compliment. "It's not always useful. Sometimes I remember things I'd rather forget."
Like her cousin pushing her down the stairs. Like whatever else her family did to make her run.
I push that thought down and focus on the present moment.
Tara reaching for something on a high shelf, her shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of pale skin. The way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating. How she automatically moves closer to me when other people pass in the aisle.
She might be trying to convince herself we're "teammates," but her body knows better.
“Hey, I told you we’re not getting any more lemons.” Tara playfully swats at my hand.
I blink, uncertainty rushing in. Did she tell me? Were there lemons in the fridge this morning? The memory—if it was ever there—dances just out of reach.
“I was going to grab these ginger and garlic.” I nod at the nearest produce next to the lemons.
