I seriously needed an Anton fix after learning about Amelia.
“Hey, Thea.”
“Hi.”
“You sound funny, what’s going on?”
“I just learned about Amelia.”
There was a note of surprise in his voice. “Damian told you about her?”
“Yes. You sound surprised that he did.”
“Her death hit him hard. They’d only just found each other and then she was gone. After the funeral he kind of closed that part of his life down, but considering who you are, you’re the only person he would open that old wound up for.”
Even hating what we were discussing, I loved his thoughts on it. “Was Amelia the reason Damian’s dad left?”
“Yeah. He’d fallen in love with Amelia’s mother.”
I squeezed the phone so hard I was surprised it didn’t break. “So that’s why his mother kept Damian because his father started over with another and she couldn’t torture the man, so she tortured his son.”
“Exactly.”
“If she wasn’t dead, I would kill her.”
“Get in line. I’ve got to go. Damian will fill you in on what we’ve learned.”
“I miss you.”
“Ah, love, I miss you too.”
I needed to bake something. Baking always soothed me; it was my form of yoga. I pulled out the ingredients for oatmeal raisin cookies. Damian came in while I measured out the dry ingredients.
“I’m making oatmeal raisin cookies. I picked that over say chocolate chip or butter because they have oats so you will be more inclined to eat them even though you don’t eat carbs or refined sugars.”
He leaned up against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, but he was smiling at me. My knees went weak. “Should I get the fire extinguisher?”
Would I never live down my first attempt at making cookies?
“Careful or I won’t share. The trick to the perfect cookie is to slightly undercook it.”
“Yes because we’ve seen what happens when you overcook it.”
I wanted to laugh, but instead I glared.
Teasing turned serious when Damian said, “They found who hired the fuck from the alley.”
I stopped whisking the dry ingredients. “Who was it?”
“He’s a CI for Dobbs.”
“So the attack was linked to Dobbs.”
“I don’t think so. I think someone wants us to think that.”
“You think whoever hired this CI knew of his connection to Dobbs and used it to throw us off his scent.”
“Exactly.”
He came up right behind me and pulled the hair from my shoulder to kiss my neck.
My mouth went dry. “That’s a trigger for me.”
He looked very naughty. “Good to know. How can I help?”
“Cookies? We’re talking about cookies, right?”
He chuckled, and then he rubbed his thumb over my lip. “Yeah, babe. For now, we’re talking about cookies.”
“Cookies instead of sex, I suppose there are worse substitutes.”
It was our first night of work. Janice had a dress code—short skirt and tank top that showed off cleavage. Boobs sold drinks; Janice’s words not mine. I wasn’t thrilled working for the woman, knowing what I did about her, but Damian would get to keep an eye on her so there was the silver lining. I checked out my appearance in the mirror. I liked the jean skirt; I had purchased it from a cute little boutique in Soho. It was short with a frayed edge, sexy but not gratuitous. The tank though, a white ribbed tank with a scoop neckline low enough that my girls were definitely on display. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and didn’t bother with very much makeup because in this outfit no one would be looking at my face. A few swipes of mascara, some lip gloss and I was good to go.
Grabbing my apron, I walked into the kitchen and stopped dead. Damian was leaning up against the counter. He was in faded jeans and that black tee of his that was more like a second skin. Every bump and ridge of muscle was on glorious display. I reached for one of the cookies we had baked last night, our substitute cookies we called them, and stuffed it in my mouth so I didn’t do what I really wanted to do, which was lick every inch of his body. He looked up, his eyes hitting mine before he moved them down my body…lingering a moment longer on my breasts.
“I know.” I gestured to my décolletage. “Boobs sell drinks.” Then I looked at him through my lashes. “Why? Is this a trigger?”
He answered by grabbing a cookie on his way out of the kitchen.
“I need your keys, Pat. I’m not giving you another drink until you hand them over.”
Pat was fifty-eight, divorced with three kids in college. He worked as an insurance agent and as soon as the clock struck five, his butt was on a stool at Janice’s bar. He was sweet, a flirt and really enjoyed his beer.