The Lucky in Love Collection - Lauren Blakely Page 0,101

smile. “That’s cool. I like to listen.”

Molly chatters on about her favorite animals, her favorite friends, her favorite clothes, and her favorite games as we illustrate an entire savannah in front of my home while Derek holds the baby and plays with her.

It’s weirdly . . . domestic.

It’s also thoroughly unexpected.

I didn’t anticipate coming home and finding my hot housemate playing with his nieces.

“Where’s your nephew? Doesn’t your sister have three kids?”

“He’s playing basketball,” Molly answers.

“At a friend’s house,” Derek adds, and Devon cuts him off with a wail.

“And someone is officially hungry.” He glances at the time on his watch. It’s past six thirty. “We should go. Make you guys some dinner.”

Molly claps. “Can we have dinosaur nuggets and french fries?”

Derek shakes his head. “No, you can have chicken and broccoli.”

Molly’s nose wrinkles, making it clear what she thinks of that idea. “Pretty please.”

He shakes his head. “If you don’t like that, you’re welcome to have a delicious salad of beets, carrots, and organic apples.”

“Gross.” Molly makes a gagging sound.

“C’mon, then, porcupine. Time to go.” He glances at the artwork, then turns to me, his eyes landing on mine. “Guess I’ll see you later, officer.”

A strange feeling envelops me—the wish that he’ll say, “Let’s have a drink,” or “Want to watch a show?” or “Should we grab a bite?”

But those are crazy thoughts, so I shake them off.

My stomach doesn’t though.

It rumbles loudly.

“Someone wants chicken and broccoli,” Derek teases.

“Seems I do,” I admit.

“I’ll make you something later if you’d like.” The offer is sweet and completely welcome.

I smile and say yes.

As I head inside, I feel a little buzzed, a little tipsy.

A little like my feet don’t touch the ground.

I’ve seen a whole new side to Derek, one I never imagined existed when I met his flirty, cocky, handsome ass on the bike. Just a few days ago, he was a typical bad boy, dirty to the bone. But I’ve learned he’s determined, straightforward, and giving too.

He cares deeply for his family, and he dotes on his nieces. He’s devoted to his sister.

And we share a passion for work with the community. We both wake up every day and help others. Being a cop—and being a paramedic, I presume—can be thankless, emotionally draining, and woefully underpaid work.

And yet, I wouldn’t change it.

It’s not my hormones banging the drum inside my body as I go into my house.

It’s some other part of me. A part I haven’t exercised in a long time. A part I don’t let out to play very often.

That dumb heart.

Even though I told my brother I have a type, the problem is, that type doesn’t usually work out in the end. I’ve dated, and I’ve had some semi-serious boyfriends, but the last person I liked—really liked—was Nick, who ran a tattoo shop in Santa Cruz. I’d met the growly, inked artist on the boardwalk one weekend when I was there for a girls’ getaway.

Nick and I hit it off in the way that two people who don’t live in the same place can. Our connection was instant and electric. He was 100 percent my type, and I was utterly gaga over him.

So gaga, I managed the three-hour drive to Santa Cruz as often as I could, visiting him on weekends and whenever I had time off, this little arrangement going on for several months.

He was sexy and funny and hot as sin.

Turned out he had a girlfriend too. Just hadn’t mentioned her to me. Slipped his mind.

Oops.

I was the other woman.

Since then, I’ve been as cautious as I can, dating locally, screening men online through and through.

What the hell? Why am I thinking about dating? Derek and I aren’t dating. We aren’t an item. He just offered to make me dinner.

I head to the gym to work out and work off these silly hormones.

Yes, they’re just hormones.

That’s all.

When I return, I don’t see him. I take a shower, loop my wet hair in a ponytail, and tug on shorts and a tank top. I dust on some powder and add a pinch of lip gloss, then head to the living room where I turn on some music.

It’s eight thirty, and I’m ready to eat the table.

What the hell?

This girl has had a long, hard day, and she’s hangry.

That’s when I hear a key clicking in the back lock—the door that leads directly to the room above the garage. Will he go straight upstairs or come downstairs to the kitchen? And why do I care? Why do