Do You Want Me Part One (This Love Hurts 0.5)

“It’s fine,” I say as I wave him off and seek refuge in my glass of wine. Within seconds I’m in control, relaxed and myself again. I don’t know if he saw the heat I felt or if he thought it was just embarrassment, but Cody is a gentleman, so he doesn’t say either way.

“I just wanted—” he starts, but Sandy interrupts, dropping a double Jack and Coke in front of him. “Thanks, Sandy,” he answers, his tone different. More professional maybe. My stomach doubles over in the best of ways and then that feeling travels lower as I wonder if he talks to me differently than he does to other women.

When I’m consulting with his team, it’s men only. I rarely see him out of the office. Especially since they go out of town so much.

There’s an obvious masculinity to the strong man in front of me. A hard edge that doesn’t seem to matter whenever he flashes me a charming smile. I’ve spent a number of nights with a toy between my legs, thinking about him. Watching him in interrogation rooms, observing the way he works and the manner in which others look up to him, does something to me. He’s only in his late thirties, maybe in his early forties, but the way he does just about everything has an air of authority that’s undeniable. Being a member of the FBI will do that to you I suppose.

It’s sexy as hell. As he reaches for the glass, palming it with his large hand and takes a swig, I glance at the muscles in his forearms, out to play tonight since he’s rolled up his button-down sleeves. They sure as hell don’t hurt his sex god image I’ve conjured up in my head.

I’ve been in this town in Pennsylvania since I left New York five years ago. Walsh happened to come here too from Virginia. The same case brought us here and we both stayed. Maybe it’s camaraderie from the now cold case or maybe it’s the mutual misery we’ve endured in this gray town riddled with corruption, but every time I see this man, I want to be under him more and more by the end of the night.

“Just wanted to say,” he starts again, setting down his glass, the swirling amber liquid more Jack than Coke and he keeps his blue eyes focused on it rather than me for the half second. Reaching my gaze, he tells me, “I’m sorry you went through that hell yesterday.”

Confusion hits me first. Then a blip of reality. Right. Of course he’s thinking about business and not fucking me into his mattress.

“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing. There was no reason for her to bring up that shit.” His tone is deathly low although there’s nothing but compassion there.

“Her” meaning the reporter, a blonde with perfect hair who goes by Jill and works for the local eleven o’clock news. And “that shit” meaning the case that brought us both here five years ago.

We were both in deep, both devastated when every lead gave us nothing and the one man we could track down ended up dead. There was nothing left that we could do. The murders stopped and the evidence didn’t lead to anyone still living.

“It’s fine, Walsh,” I say, shutting down his anger with a flat tone of my own and reach for my wine again, but I don’t drink it. “She’s not a lawyer or a detective. She has no idea what she’s talking about.”

“No,” he answers and waits for my gaze to meet his. My chest hollows but somehow feels full just the same when I see his steely blue eyes. “It’s not fine.” His last statement is almost a murmur. He’s the one who breaks our stare to look down into his full glass and then empty in a second when he throws it all back.

I don’t look back at him, even though I can feel somebody’s eyes on me. Someone else is watching me. There’s a prick that travels up the base of my neck, making the small hairs there stand on edge. I can feel it. But not a soul is looking at me when I glance around the room. A shiver rolls down my spine.

The chilling sensation doesn’t stop and I have to turn around toward the small window near our table to check there too, but no one’s there either.

“I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Cody’s somber tone forces me to look back at him and I do what I haven’t done even once in the years I’ve known him; I lay my hand on his. The touch is hot, smoldering even, sending a tingle up my arm that jolts me. It’s only a fraction of a second before I realize what I’ve done and I quickly move to pat his hand, but from the look in his eyes I know that he knows a friendly pat wasn’t my intention.