Page 34 of Licks

When he escorted me safely up the stone steps and inside the front doors, I kissed his smooth cheek. I still couldn’t believe I could kiss his cheek, smooth or otherwise. “My Prince Charming.”

He kept me tucked into his side. “Please don’t come here alone.”

“Are you feeling protective?”

“I’m feeling like I want to cut out that man’s tongue and feed it to him after marinating it in E. coli.”

“I think Ainsley rubbed off on you.”

He shivered. “I’d prefer to remain on her good side. We should also find you a parka to wear, keep leering men away.”

I glanced at my white tank top, tight but not showing excessive cleavage. “This isn’t exactly skimpy, and I could have handled myself on the street.”

He backed me against the hallway wall and planted one hand on the plaster by my head. His pupils blew wide. “Do you know how gorgeous you are? I swear to God, Gwen—I can barely focus around you. It was always like this, like I couldn’t think about anything but you when we were together. All I could do was write songs. You just exude this strength and confidence, even back when you thought you weren’t worthy. More so now. And there’s nothing sexier than a woman who can handle her own, but I do not want you handling yourself with sloppy men who have no issues taking without asking.”

A piano’s harmonics drifted toward us, each struck key mimicking my sharp pulse. I flattened my palms on his firm chest and almost whimpered again. “I used to distract you?”

He chuckled, a low devious sound. “Oh, honey, you have no idea.”

“I want an idea.” I wanted all of his ideas, every thought he’d ever had. I wanted to collect them. My secret jar of hearts. And honey? Sign me up for that endearment.

“We’ll discuss my ideas during your pole vaulting lesson,” he said.

I inched my leg between his, until my hip made contact with his groin. “Will these lessons involve show and tell?”

He rotated his hips, enough for me to appreciate the solid bulge behind his zipper. “Since you sucked at school, I thought visuals would help.”

A PowerPoint presentation would be appreciated. “Says the guy who dropped out of college and made a sport out of shooting green Jell-O from his nose. And I worked hard for my degree, thank you very much. I also rock at my job.”

Although I was teasing him, his faced sobered. He created space between us. “What do you do for work?”

Right. He didn’t know. I may have followed (stalked) his career, but I didn’t have a Facebook page. I’d avoided social media since my catastrophic WTF. He wouldn’t know defining details of my life. No details at all, really.

His arms hung limp at his sides. Instinctively, I wrapped mine around my waist. “I work at an adoption agency, placing babies in homes.”

“Wow.” He jolted slightly, his voice low and heavy. “That’s amazing. Do you love it?”

Even talking about it had me grinning. “I never expected to find a career that fulfilled me like this, but it’s so rewarding. As painful as those student loans and school headaches were, it was worth it. I found my purpose.” To give kids loving families and the childhood I never had.

He was frowning again, like my success upset him. “I’m happy for you,” he said, no happiness in his flat tone.

A chill descended between us. It was easy to get carried away with this newness, kissing in the street, flirting, but this awkward interlude was a reminder how little we knew about each other. It was also easy for him to say he could forgive me and move on from our past. Actions spoke louder than words, and his body language screamed wary.

I should take his lead and focus on finding my father, not on pole vaulting and August Cruz. Although pole vaulting with August Cruz was a notion I could get behind. Or in front of. Or underneath.

Instead I pulled my Badass PI badge from my purse. “Tonight I’m not an adoption agent. Tonight we’re private investigators hot on a trail.”

He latched onto my attempt at levity and dug his badge from his jeans pocket. He held it up between two fingers. “I take my PI work seriously.”

“Want me to sew it on your shirt?”

“I doubt you have a needle and thread in that tiny purse, and I’ve seen you sew, Gwen. You’d likely pierce my nipple.”

He was referring to the stuffed monkey I’d made in eighth grade, otherwise known as Mutant Monkey.

I maneuvered my Coach shoulder bag, the compact stunner a donation from Ainsley’s collection. Fancy yet functional. I pulled out a mini sewing kit. “For emergencies.”

PI badge wedged between his fingers, he covered his nipples with both palms. “You’re not coming near me with that.”