to steady her, causing little darts of pleasure to shimmy up her spine. She almost leaned back into him. Instead, she bent slightly as if she were listening for the little dog’s whimpers and intentionally brushed her ass against his fly.
She felt his shock before straightening and walking back into the kitchen. “Can I get you something else, Officer . . . I mean, Joseph?”
By his expression she knew she was playing with fire, and it felt good to feel like the old Tennyson, the one who knew how to control her world and make decisions that were, if not smart, hers alone. But that wasn’t true. The decisions made were hers. Perhaps her discontent was more about feeling like she was floating with no true anchor. She’d come back to Shreveport and had done nothing more but move in and watch Netflix for days. Of course, the wedding would occupy a lot of her time over the summer, but what next?
Joseph set his nearly empty bottle on the counter and moved toward her.
Anticipation hummed in her belly.
Please. Please. Please.
He drew close enough for her to see his pores, for her to smell the piney, masculine, yummy scent that was his alone, for her to hear his breathing, which was a little uneven. Leaning toward her, very close, he said, “Better not. I have to drive home. Maybe next time.”
Joseph moved past her toward the front door. Momentary disappointment blanketed her, but then he turned and gave her a half smile that was so sexy, she almost squeezed her legs together. His gaze moved down, taking her in. “If you need me, you have my number.”
She glanced involuntarily at the cute corkboard mounted above the built-in desk in the kitchen. Officer Joseph Rhett’s card was pinned right in the center. “I do have your number, Joseph.”
He opened the door and stepped onto the threshold. “Good night, Tennyson. Don’t forget to lock the door behind me. Appreciate the hospitality.”
Tennyson stuck a hand on her hip and tilted her head. “Oh, sugar, it was just a drink. Next time maybe I’ll let you frisk me.”
His expression before shutting the door was almost wolfish. Right before he closed it all the way, he opened it and tapped the lock. “Don’t forget.”
Then he closed the door. She walked over and turned the dead bolt, resisting the urge to part the curtains in the dining room to watch Joseph walk away.
Well, the man had the “protect” part down.
Now what about the serve?
Perhaps she would get the chance to find out. Tennyson was fairly certain a warning shot had crossed her bow, the ref was standing in center court holding the ball, and the horses were in the chute thingy. Along with all the other euphemisms for “it’s about to be on” she could think of.
She smiled and strolled toward her bedroom, switching off lights and kicking off the Louboutins that had been killing her feet all night.
As she went, she hummed Carly Simon’s “Anticipation.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Melanie slid off her shoes and set them on the shelf in her massive closet. She’d worn the nude kitten heels for the engagement party and those went on one of the two neutral-shoes shelves. She looked down at her dress and noted a bit of dried frosting on the sheath. Sighing, she unzipped it, slid it off her body, and placed it in the dry-cleaning hamper. She caught sight of herself in the mirror affixed to the back of the closet door and made a face. The tight control top of the pantyhose pressed into her flesh, making a significant muffin top, and her knees looked saggy beneath the bottom elastic band. Her bra was serviceable, not even close to a sexy scrap of lace, and she was almost certain her neck was starting to sag into turkey territory.
And, God, was she tired. She could see it in her face and the circles under her eyes. The way she looked, it was . . . middle-aged.
Just a month ago she’d turned forty-six years old, but most days she didn’t feel that old. Sometimes when she was required to tell someone her age, she was surprised when she remembered exactly how old she was. The big five-oh was coming at her, and that seemed . . . wrong. She couldn’t be nearly fifty years old because that was, well, old. But now she was officially the mother of the bride. Before too long, she could be a grandmother.