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They’d been working together for a few months when she asked it. They’d gone out for a few drinks after a particularly brutal case had come to a close.
She’d indulged in a second drink. She was relaxed, languid, but not drunk—never drunk. She knew where the line was, and she did not cross it. She never crossed it. She’d grown up with it crossed on a daily basis, and she had long ago vowed that she would never be a drunk. Never be like Serena.
So, she’d been drinking, but she was not drunk.
Nevertheless he insisted on walking her home, a show of old fashioned manners and gallantry that she found either maddening or endearing depending on the time of day and her own mood.
Tonight, two drinks in, it was endearing. And perhaps just the tiniest bit maddening. She wanted to be seen as a competent cop, not merely his junior partner.
* * * * *
She was all bravado and bulky suits—a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
Except.
Except she was anything but a child. Kathy’s reaction the first time she they met made that clear.
“Olivia’s not what I expected,” she said it around a mouthful of baked ziti.
He cocked his head, curious. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I guess I was expecting someone a little older. Harder maybe.” She took another bite. “She’s pretty; don’t you think?”
There was no way to answer that. He took a long sip of wine, buying time. “I guess,” he answered, noncommittally. She wasn’t just pretty; she was stunning, breathtaking, captivating. It was as though sometimes she was the only thing he could see.
And now they were standing in front of her building. Her bright eyes reflected the glow of the streetlight, as she looked up at him.
He couldn’t look away. It was thought he was frozen in space and frozen in that moment.
She licked her lips, just a tiny flick of her perfect pink tongue, and shifted her weight just the tiniest bit. “Do you want to come upstairs?”
Her eyes darkened as she asked it. No longer reflecting the streetlight, they instead had an inner spark of desire.
* * * * *
The question was out before she even had a chance to think about it. She’d love to be able to blame the drinks, but she couldn’t. It was him; it was them; it was the night and the way his eyes met hers, the way way he stood just a little closer than any of her previous partners had, the way that—despite her internal rules about not mixing business and pleasure—she really wanted him to say yes.
Time stood still, and she could see him working his jaw, swallowing. “I’m. . .” he began and took a breath. “Married.”
She took a step back. Of course. She held her hands up and then dropped them awkwardly. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. I’m sorry. I should . . . I’m sorry.”
She took another step back, her heart in her throat, flooded with embarrassment. She turned, ready to flee, but he caught her wrist. “Liv.”
His fingers were warm and his grip strong. Her breath caught as she turned back. His eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, but with something other than anger. His expression was soft, almost regretful. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We’ve both had a few.”
“Yes,” she nodded, agreeing, silently. “I’m sure that’s probably it.” She looked down at the ground, unable to meet his eyes any longer.
He let go, and she walked away. But even as she ascended the stairs, she could feel the touch of his fingers still lingering like a sunburn. She should be glad. If he’d taken her up on the offer—if they’d fucked—It would have fucked everything up.
But all she could think of was that even as he hadn’t said yes, he also hadn’t said no. There was an ocean of unspoken words that followed his single sentence, but she saw them in his eyes, heard them in his tone, felt them in the possessiveness of his grip.
She was swimming in that ocean, and was about to drown in the dangerous undertow of emotion that went along with it.
* * * * *
He had a death grip on the subway bar. It had taken everything he had in him to walk away.
Had he wanted to go upstairs? Only as much as he wanted to breathe.
Had he wanted to go upstairs? Like he’d wanted to rip into the presents under the tree on Christmas morning.
And he’d had to wait. Had to sit and stare at all the bows and wrapping until everyone else in the family was awake, and they’d had Christmas breakfast.
And just like those beautiful packages she was off-limits, but oh, how he yearned to unwrap her.
Had he wanted to go upstairs?
Had he wanted to see the glorious curves that he knew were hidden under her boxy blazers? Had he wanted to kiss her until her lips were bruised? Had he wanted to bury himself in her until she cried his name?
Yes, but he couldn’t.
Yes, but he dare not.
Yes, and the what ifs were going to haunt him until the day he died.
Damn.
End