Having Will in it was also giving her ideas she had no business having.
And having Wrigley-that was scary on a whole new level. Friday morning, when she realized she was sharing her oatmeal with a dog, she bolted out of the house so fast her shoes left skid marks.
She should've had a fit about Will bringing a dog into her house. She should've kicked them both out. A person staying a few nights was one thing, but a pet-what if it had fleas, or peed on the furniture, or got into the cabinets or chewed her towels or ate her secret stash of Hershey bars?
But Wrigley's sad, soulful eyes-his I don't have anybody else to love me look-she'd melted. Lindsey was such a sucker.
She hadn't lied. Nat's allergies had kept her family from having pets. But Lindsey had wanted a dog.
She'd wanted a dog more than she'd wanted to breathe most of her middle school and junior high years.
After her spring break with Will, she'd wanted anyone or anything that would love her. She'd found it in her neighbor's black lab during her summer internship.
No judgment, just love.
It had reminded her of Will.
And now, she had Will, and she had a dog. Sort of. Once he found a new house to rent-or decided to bail on Bliss-they would both be gone. She knew he had a concert in Georgia in a couple of weeks. She'd heard him talking to his management on the phone about it. And then a tour, recording more albums, more touring.
He was temporary.
Even if she and Will could make peace with their past, she'd never be the partner a public figure like Billy Brenton needed. He was surrounded by people all the time. People wanted to talk to him, wanted to talk about him, wanted to talk about who he was with, pass judgments. She couldn't tolerate that scrutiny aimed at her and her gift. She couldn't tolerate the scrutiny he would endure for her gift. Good for him that he was comfortable having a psychic, but being half-raised by one was different than dating one. And with her discomfort in crowds on top of it?
She couldn't date him, because he made her match-o-meter malfunction. He wasn't a good match. Or maybe he was, and she was overthinking it. Or maybe he wasn't, but she wanted him to be anyway.
So Friday night, when the cleaning crew arrived at the law firm, she went home and tucked herself into her home office to do a little extra work, earplugs firmly in her ears. Will had been plugged in to a laptop computer, his guitar next to him and earbuds in his ears, murmuring something to himself, and she was fairly certain he hadn't even realized she was home.
She was perusing online menus, contemplating the deep philosophical question of chicken or steak on a salad-but what she wanted was cheese fries from Suckers-when the unmistakable scent of yummy food wafted into the room.
Lindsey's stomach growled. Once again, he'd made her mouth water.
The man was so good with the torture.
Fleeing the house for food was tempting. But it would've been rude.
Unless he hadn't made enough for her too.
That would've been rude.
She logged off the remote connection to her files in her downtown office, and was about to close her Internet browser when the smell got stronger.
"You hungry, lawyer lady?" a voice drawled behind her.
It was a muffled voice, but it came through the earplugs. She pulled them out, then twisted away from her desk to face him.
Today, he wore a blue plaid button-down open over his white T-shirt, and his stubbled cheeks looked freshly trimmed. But what caught her attention most was the plate he carried, heaped with stir fry, and the glass of white wine in his other hand.
If the man had flaws, she couldn't remember what they were. "I am," she said. "Thank you."
"Promise to behave myself if you want to come on downstairs and eat with us."
With any other man, she would've asked what the fun was in behaving herself. Instead, she nodded, then followed him downstairs.
While Wrigley lay at her feet, Will told funny stories about life on the road and alternated it with asking loaded questions with an innocent delivery. What did a lawyer lady do for fun? How did she sleep at night with all those dinosaurs across the hall? Was it true she'd also played matchmaker for CJ's co-owner at Suckers? He didn't mention Mikey.
Funny, because Lindsey had heard Mikey was staying with Dahlia instead of at a hotel. The same Dahlia that Lindsey had pegged as a not-bad match for Mikey and that Will had asked her about more than once.
Lindsey's plate was empty, her wine nearly so, when Will pushed back his empty beer glass and leaned his elbows on the table. "You're not so bad when you relax a little."
"And you're not so bad when you're not playing god-awful music."
There went the killer country boy grin, with a full eye-twinkle to go with it. Good thing the man didn't have dimples, or he probably would cause heart attacks every time he used them. He was giving the smileys on her panties heart palpitations as it was. They practically leapt off the cotton. Smile at me! Look at me!
"What kind of music do you like?" he asked.
She swirled her wine and told herself to get a grip. "I don't listen to much music."
"Ever?"
"Lady Naga could walk past me on the street and I wouldn't have a clue."
He sucked in his cheeks as though he was trying not to laugh. "What about Justin Beaver?"
"Him either. What's so funny?"
Will shook his head and held up a finger. After a minute, his eyes were still dancing, green flecks peeking out amidst the brown, but he'd stopped snickering. "You're one in a million, lawyer lady. You ever listen to anything but NPR?"
"Nope."
"Gotta branch out some. Try some heavy metal. Grunge rock."
"Grunge rock?"
He nodded, all fake seriousness. "You look the type."
And there she went, laughing at him.
She never laughed in January. It was a refreshing change.
Also dangerous.
Wrigley sniffed the air. She tossed him a piece of chicken. He lunged for it as though he hadn't been fed in months, then scrambled to a sitting position at her side.
"People at the shelter said he wasn't ever this active," Will said. "He likes you."
So Wrigley was a shelter dog. She fed him another piece of chicken. "Do you have to return him?"
"I don't take my dogs back." The offense was heavy enough to make her feel guilty, even though she hadn't meant it that way.
"I didn't know if you were borrowing him"-she lifted an eyebrow-"to annoy me."
Wrigley grunted in Will's direction, and Lindsey smiled. "He didn't either." She stood to take her plate to the sink. "Thank you, again, for dinner."
"Worth eating?" he asked.
"It was surprisingly good."
He stood with his own plate and padded after her. She could've told him to leave it, that he cooked, she'd clean. But that felt too domestic. Too much like what her parents would've done.
At the thought of her parents, an unexpected lump settled in her throat.
Mom would've liked Will.
Rather, he would've charmed her out of her heels. She wouldn't have just liked him. She would've adored him.
Will bumped her shoulder at the sink, and awareness flared deep inside her, deeper than just the smileys on her panties. She fluttered a hand. "I've got this. You can go-do whatever."
"No trouble." His voice was right there, right in her ear. "Like to clean up my messes."
Was she one of his messes?
She turned on the faucet to rinse the plates. "Still. I can handle this."
He was between her and the dishwasher. And he'd apparently decided he was done behaving himself, because he was watching her with a singular concentration, as though he were putting all his effort into sending subliminal messages that she needed to drop everything-including her clothes-and kiss him.
"Excuse me," she said, but he'd broken so soundly through her barriers at dinner that her voice wobbled.
He took the plate from her hand. Set it in the sink. Killed the faucet. Stepped closer, his intentions clear.
Her breath came in short, shallow bursts. When she kissed a man, she kissed him on her terms. Always with an escape route clear.
Will anchored his arms on either side of her, trapping her against the countertop.
She didn't like being crowded.
But she didn't want to escape.
Didn't want to be in control.
She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to lead. She wanted to feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth. The scrape of his stubble. The solid wall of his chest.
The scents of cotton and beer tickled her nose.
He was going to kiss her.
"Dessert?" he said, that voice rumbling over and through her, fracturing those cracks in her resolve.
She needed to say no. She needed to push him away. "Y-yes."
He leaned closer, his lips a breath away, and then-
And then he pulled away. Let go of the countertop. And shoved a plate of cookies between them. "Me too."
When she didn't immediately move, he shrugged, took a cookie, then put the plate down. "My Aunt Jessie's recipe," he said. "Lady can cook." He gave a nod, took a man-size bite, then sauntered to the sunroom.