Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,24

meet him halfway and pull him into my arms. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

He grins. “It does smell good, doesn’t it?”

I press a kiss to the side of his neck. “Actually, I meant coming home to you.”

For the past two decades, I came home every night to an empty condo, faced with the prospect of heating up a frozen dinner or eating take-out leftovers. On the rare occasions I had a date—with a woman—the outcome wasn’t much better. After dinner at a restaurant and, what was for me at least, an emotionless fuck, I still ended up coming home alone.

I kept hoping things would change, that I’d meet a woman I could connect with, one who would make my heart pound and my blood burn, but it never happened.

And then I met Ian. This guy lights me on fire.

I’ve moved in with Ian, but I still own the condo. I wonder if it’s too soon to sell it. I certainly don’t need it anymore. I don’t want it. My home is here, with Ian.

“I thought we’d eat up on the roof,” Ian says as he grabs a bottle of white wine and an opener.

“Here, I’ll do it.” I take the bottle from him and remove the cork with a resounding pop. I set the open wine bottle on the kitchen island to breathe. “I’ll grab a quick shower while dinner’s cooking. Then I’ll help you carry everything up to the roof.”

“That sounds—” Ian flinches at the sound of his phone ringing. He makes no effort to answer it, and that’s not like him. He’s usually attached to his phone.

“Is everything okay?” I ask him as the ringing stops.

He shrugs. “I’ve been getting tons of spam calls lately. It’s so annoying.” Then he turns me toward the hallway and gives me a push toward the stairs. “Go take your shower. Dinner will be ready soon.”

I turn back to gaze into his eyes. Something’s off. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

He smiles. “Of course. Now hurry, or our dinner will get cold.”

I still think something’s bothering him. I cup the back of his head and kiss him. “It’s good to be home. I missed you today.”

He smiles. “Me too.”

His phone starts ringing again.

“You should check that,” I tell him as I loosen my tie and head for the stairs. “It could be Layla.”

* * *

After a quick shower, I put on a pair of drawstring flannel bottoms and a T-shirt and return to the kitchen just as Ian is about done plating our dinners. He carries our plates up to the roof, and I bring the silverware, napkins, bottle of wine, and glasses.

While I pour the wine, Ian lights the candle in the center of the table.

“Why the special treatment tonight?” I ask him.

He smiles. “No reason. I just wanted to make you a nice dinner.”

I take a bite of the chicken and groan in appreciation. “You’ve outdone yourself, babe. This is fantastic.”

He raises his wine glass, and we toast.

“To us,” he says.

He’s smiling, but I detect a hint of something else in his gaze. “Is something bothering you?”

“No,” Ian says quickly. Too quickly. He looks away, lowering his gaze as he focuses on his meal.

Perhaps I’m reading too much into his behavior tonight. I know I have a tendency to be suspicious and skeptical. I can’t help it—I’m a cop. Usually, when I come home from work, Ian talks my ears off, but tonight he seems more interested in his supper.

I extend my arm across the linen tablecloth, my hand palm up. Ian sets his glass down and lays his hand in mine. I don’t say anything more—I’m not about to interrogate him—but instead I stroke the back of his hand with my thumb.

As the meal progresses, Ian continues to pick at his food. He’s going through all the right motions, cutting and shuffling bits of food around his plate, but I don’t see him put much of it in his mouth. He has, however, downed two glasses of wine without any problem.

As he becomes increasingly preoccupied, I find myself having to tamp down a growing sense of unease.

I manage to polish off my plate, while he’s barely touched his food. “You’re not hungry?”

He shakes his head. “No. I ate a big lunch.”

He’s lying. “Ian, if something’s wrong—anything—you know you can tell me, right?”

“Of course,” he says, and then he looks down at his plate.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. Should I tell him I believe