Page 35 of White Lies

“My favorite choice is well stocked,” she says, opening the bottom-drawer freezer and waving a hand across it. “I have Häagen-Dazs only because it’s my favorite. My top choice: pralines and cream, which is so very,veryincredible.”

“Two verys. That sounds serious.”

“It is. It’s addictive.”

Like her, I think, when normally it’s simply fucking a beautiful woman I find addictive, until it’s over.

“I also have rum raisin,” Faith continues, “and I promise you, you can’t go wrong with rum raisin.”

“I’ve heard that,” I say, my tone serious. “You can never go wrong with rum raisin.”

She smiles. “Don’t joke. I take rum raisin very seriously.”

“Only one ‘very,’” I point out. “I predict you choose the praline.”

“I’m still deciding,” she says. “And so are you, because I also have two pints of coconut pineapple, which sounds simple, but it’s creamy and sweet and addictive.” Her hands go to her hips. “And each of these pints contain my entire day’s calorie intake, but I haven’t eaten all day, so I don’t care.”

“Nerves over the show?”

“Yes. Nerves and the birthday thing. You know. You self-analyze and do all those things the big birthdays make you do. But it’s over. No more of that.” She points at the freezer, but not before I see the flicker of emotion in her eyes I can’t quite name. “What’s your sin?” she asks, glancing back at me, her expression checked now.

You, I think, but I say, “I’ll take the coconut pineapple,” and reach down, grabbing a pint before adding, “because sweet and addictive is exactly what I want right now.” I watch her cheeks flush over that comment, when, in contrast, her bold order for me to spank her had not inspired the same flush. Beautiful, sinful in bed, and sweet when she’s not. I might be fucking in love. “What about you?” I ask. “What’s your sin, Faith?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” she dares to say. “But as for the ice cream. Praline.” She grabs her pick, shuts the freezer, and then walks to a drawer to grab two spoons, which she holds up. “No knives. I promise.” She clunks her pint on the counter. “Though I think I might need to cut this, it’s so solid.”

I motion to the living room. “The fireplace will soften it up.”

“And warm me up,” she says, shivering. “The freezer gave me chills.” She darts past me, my gaze following her to note her bare legs and pink fluffy slippers. Adorable, all right, and I’m so fucking hard all over again, she might as well be wearing leather and a G-string, which is exactly why I need to keep my pink-fuzzy-slipper-wearing woman away from the knife drawer until I’m 100 percent sure she isn’t a killer.

Chapter Thirteen

Tiger

Pursuing Faith, something I’ve been doing since I first learned she existed—she just doesn’t know it—I follow her into the living room. I find her snuggled under a cream-colored blanket I saw on one of the chairs, her ice cream already by the fire. I join her and sit down with my back against the stool I’d had her sprawled over earlier, then set my pint next to hers by the fire.

She gives me a thoughtful look. “Youknow,” she says. “I’ll believe you’re staying when you take your shoes off.”

I chuckle. “Is that the way you know a man’s staying the night?”

“It seems like a good marker,” she says. “Not that I’ve had to make that determination any time in recent history.”

I’m not sorry at all, nor am I chuckling anymore. “Do you want me to stay, Faith?”

“Hard limit,” she says, her voice a bit raspy. “I get tonight.” And when I arch my brow at the less-than-conclusive answer, she adds, “Yes. I do.” Definitive. No shyness to her.

I don’t even try to hide the satisfaction in my stare. I reach down and unlace one of my shoes. She unlaces the other for me, tugging it off. I toss the other one. “How’s that?”

“Better,” she says, giving me a once-over. “It somehow makes you less assuming and more down-to-earth.”

“Assuming,” I say drily. “That’s right up there with arrogant.”

“But arrogant works for you,” she says. “You said so.” Her brow furrows. “And how are you here when you have a big case next week?”

“I do my best prep work locked away from the rest of the world,” I say. “And I’ve got another situation here. I actually rented a house for three months.”

“Three months,” she repeats, and this time she looks away, reaching for her ice cream, but I lay down beside her on my side, resting on my elbow.

“Faith.”

---