full as she shovels more linguini into her pretty mouth.
“The best,” I say, but I’m only partially talking about the meal. “Tell me about growing up at the clubhouse.”
“I didn’t,” she says, covering her mouth with her cloth napkin as she finishes chewing. “My mom and dad never lived on the property. They have a house out on the lake.”
“But you spent a lot of time there?”
“We were there all the time. We still spend a lot of time there.”
“And there are a lot of men around?” Jesus, why did I ask that fucking question? “I mean the guys that work for Kincaid.”
“Diego is my uncle.” She narrows her eyes, ready to defend him the second my mouth opens to offer something inflammatory.
“Everyone at the station loves him. He helps the community a ton.”
“I had thousands of community service hours by the time I graduated.”
If that’s the case, I’m surprised I never saw her until she walked into my office, but my homelife the last decade and a half hasn’t really left much time for extracurriculars.
“And you hated it?”
“Not even close. I spent a lot of time at the animal shelter. Sunday afternoons we spent many hours at the assisted-living home. I’ve done my fair share of time at the library. That wasn’t my favorite. It was normally only visited by old stuffy people. Most kids my age get all of their information from the internet.”
“True,” I agree, knowing all too well.
We reach for our glasses of water at the same time, the backs of our hands brushing. She smiles. I return it, lifting the cold water to my mouth while trying to talk myself out of turning it over and dumping it on my head so it can cool me down.
I should’ve sat across from her instead of right beside her, but who was I to argue with the hostess when she placed our menus on the connecting corner of the table?
“I told you a little about my parents. What about yours? What are they like besides forcing home-cooked meals on you?”
I watch her eyes, and they light up as she waits for me to talk about my own family. She genuinely wants to know. We aren’t just sharing small talk while getting through dinner. This is new for me. My normal outings that look similar to this are a rush to eat because both parties already knew how the date was going to end. Hell, many times, the meal was skipped.
A waste of time, as Sophia said to me in my office that first day.
But we aren’t wasting time right now, and no matter how badly I want tonight to end like the other dates I’ve had over the last decade, I know that isn’t where this night is going. It can’t, and I have to remind myself of that more often than I should.
“My parents are the most loving, supportive people I know. They only live a couple miles from my house, and I see them several times a week. We have dinner together on the weekend when I’m not working.”
“So tomorrow?”
“Probably Sunday. They’re both retired, and Saturdays are their time away from each other. Mom visits friends, and Dad pretends to know something about golf.”
She laughs, twirling her fork in her pasta as she watches my face.
“Tell me about college. I didn’t get the leave-home-and-go-crazy experience.”
A frown takes over her pretty features.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. Sorry, I—”
“No, it’s okay.” She takes a fortifying breath as she lowers her fork to her plate. “Remember I told you about falling behind in school?”
I nod because I was once again wrong about her work ethic. The woman is a machine in the office. Sometimes, I have to force her out with excuses of checking on a case just to get her to take a breather.
“Last year—” Her jaw snaps shut as her eyes narrow at me. “If you breathe a word about this to my dad, I’ll never forgive you.”
She points a finger, tapping me in the chest, and I would grin at her intimidation tactic if her face wasn’t so serious.
“I’m not friends with your father, Sophia, but even if I was, I wouldn’t share your secrets.”
No, I’d hold them inside of me so that way I knew more about you than someone else—a treasure I’d appreciate until my last dying breath.
“I had trouble at school last year. A stalker.”
I grip the edge of the table, ready to bundle her up, encase her in bubble wrap