Run to Ground(66)

As he struggled to find the words, Theo sat down next to her. “Don was my partner, my friend…more than that. He was like a dad to me.” His throat got tight, making it hard to continue, but he forced out the words. It seemed important, somehow, for Jules to know this, for Jules to know him—the real him, not the angry mess he’d become. “He killed himself two months ago.”

Her breath caught, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Oh no. I’m so sorry!” Her free hand reached out and caught his. As she squeezed, he braced for the flare of anger to hit him, for the need to escape to overwhelm him, but it never did. Instead, he felt relief, as if telling her about Don had opened up something inside him, allowing all the anger and pain to escape.

“Since I lost my K9 partner to cancer last year, Hugh assigned Viggy to me. It’s been…tough.” Theo almost laughed at the understatement.

“He seems to be doing better, though,” she said, still holding tight to his hand. “You both do.”

Sometimes it felt that way, but other times all the frustration and rage and grief threatened to drown him. It felt right to tell Jules, though. Even though he’d known her for such a short time, but there was something about her—and her whole family—that settled him, brought him peace.

Jules’s fingers tightened around his again, and he looked down at her. His blood instantly started to warm. Peace wasn’t the only thing she made him feel. He squeezed her hand as he studied her, feeling as if he could look at her all night and not get bored. Everything about her was beautiful—her eyes, her cheeks, her laugh, the smooth fall of her hair, her mouth…especially her mouth.

Theo couldn’t stop staring at her. At first, her full lips were curled up at the corners in a sympathetic smile, and then they grew serious, parting slightly. His breath stopped, his lungs stalling out and refusing to work anymore. He shifted toward her, unable to resist. It felt as if there was an invisible but powerful thread connecting them, reeling him closer. The wind gusted, tossing her hair across her face again.

Jules reached up a hand, but Theo beat her to it. He caught the stray strands, tucking them behind her ear. In the process, his fingertips just barely grazed over her cheekbone and around the shell of her ear. Her skin was cool, and goose bumps rose on her arms.

Frowning, Theo let his hand drop. Her gaze followed it down and then found his face again. Her breaths were coming quick and light, and the rise and drop of her chest was extremely distracting. Shoving away his confusing jumble of emotion for the moment, he released her hand so he could pull his hoodie over his head. Jules was staring at his stomach, making Theo realize the movement had made his T-shirt ride up, exposing his abs. He tugged it back down, loving how Jules’s face dropped in obvious disappointment when his skin was no longer showing. She shivered again, and he remembered what he’d been about to do.

“Here,” he said quietly, lifting the sweatshirt so he could put it on over her head. “You’re cold.”

She raised her arms once she realized what he intended, allowing the “Monroe Police Department” sweatshirt to envelope her, the bottom hem falling to the porch floor, the fabric puddling around her hips. For some reason, Theo liked seeing her in his sweatshirt. He decided he’d give it to her. That way, during the long, lonely, sleepless nights, he could imagine her wearing it.

A surge of heat ran through him, and he cleared his throat, trying to refocus. “Warmer?”

“Much.” Her voice was throaty, lending the word a secondary meaning, one that Theo wasn’t sure was intentional or not. Either way, it brought his attention back to her mouth. This time, when he leaned closer, there was no chilled skin to distract him. His gaze was locked on her and hers on him, and he could see she felt the same pull of the invisible thread, that same irresistible tug that linked them together.

It didn’t matter then whether he had the right thing to say. Silence was fine.

Fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, he came closer and closer, until he was enveloped in her scent—spicy vanilla—and her heat and the puffs of excited air that warmed his throat.

Finally, he was there.

The first spark of their lips meeting startled him, making him jolt and pull away just a little, until he couldn’t feel her breathe anymore. Almost as soon as he separated from her, he was back, needing to kiss her more than he’d needed anything.

Then she moaned. It was a tiny sound, cute—like so many things she did—and hot and perfect. It vibrated against his mouth, and he was done thinking or debating or being angry or anything else. All he wanted to do was kiss Jules Jackson, who was very likely not Jules Jackson. At this moment, he didn’t care if she was Al Capone’s zombie in drag. Whoever she was, whatever she was running from, it wasn’t going to stop him.