She stumbled; her mind and feet lost synchronization at the thought. This was more than sex for her, wasn’t it? Crap. Yeah. Her stomach had butterflies flapping around in crazy flight patterns. Her skin prickled in anticipation of his arrival. She rubbed her arms as she headed into the kitchen.
Oh, fuzzy duck balls. Liking him presented a problem, then, didn’t it? Well, at least for her. She opened a cupboard and took down a bottle of bourbon and two low-ball glasses. Sizzling chemistry aside, she really liked Brock and wanted to nurture that… friendship, but her invite for a romp between the sheets put them on the precarious lip of a slippery slope. Fuck, they needed to talk, didn’t they? Crap, crap, crap. Why couldn’t she just throw him into the bed, use him, and call it a day?
Because he wasn’t that type of a guy, and she wasn’t that kind of woman. Kallie dropped her arms to her sides and stared up at the ceiling. Shit. Did she just put him in the boyfriend zone? She did, didn’t she. Holy crap. Next she’d be writing his name and making scrolly hearts all around it. Two days. Two days! Seriously, woman, you need to shake yourself out of this romance novel you’re writing in your brain and jump back into reality. She’d invited Brock over for food and sex. Her flights of fancy, aside, those were the cold hard facts.
She nodded her head to punctuate her self-scolding and slammed open the silverware drawer. “You don’t even know if he’s interested in anything more than a roll in the hay.” She collected the silverware as she grumbled. Her internal argument didn’t abate while she put the place settings on the table, or while she did a quick inspection of the front room. It certainly didn’t end when she padded back into her bathroom and ran a brush through her hair again, nor did it subside when she turned on the lamp beside her bed.
The knock at her apartment door, did however, shut down the argument. It also threw her into a quick panic. Straightening her shoulders, she drew a deep breath and headed to the front door. She could do this. She could.
Brock smiled when she opened the door and that simple act calmed her.
“I fed Fester enough for tonight and tomorrow. He has fresh water and litter, and I spent some quality time petting him before I came back.” He hefted a small duffle bag. “As directed.”
She opened the door and motioned him in. “Should I apologize for that? The directive?”
He sauntered in the door and stopped in front of her. “Regretting it already?”
“No. I have no regrets about asking you to spend the night.” She shut the door and stepped toward him. “Do you?”
“Regret you asking me? Abso-fucking-lutely not. I was trying to plan a way to get to us to this point. But we can’t let this—” he motioned between them, “— interfere with the case.” He placed his duffle beside the table in the small entryway and slipped off his winter jacket, dropping it over the bag.
She walked past him as she said, “I’d like to believe we are both more professional than that, and I agree, the case comes first. As much as I don’t want to say this, maybe we should talk before we jump off the cliff?” She poured a shot of bourbon into each glass and handed him one.
“Talk?” He ran his eyes up and down her and leaned on the counter. He lifted his glass in a silent salute and took a sip.
She dropped her eyes. Oh, hell. Words were going to be difficult because she really wanted to see what was hiding in that bulge of denim. “Ye– yeah.” She cleared her throat and took a drink. “Ground rules.”
“Like?”
“No inappropriate actions at work. Strictly business.”
“We will need to let HR know we are seeing each other.” He took another sip and set the glass on the counter.
“I have no problem doing that. Do you?”
He shook his head. “What else? You said rules, as in plural.”
“This may be stupid, but I enjoy the way we work together, and I don’t want to lose that, because of this.” She used the hand that held her bourbon to motion between them. God, that sounded… so freaking emotional. She rolled her eyes. Damn it, heat roared to her cheeks. She spun and grabbed at a potholder, though she