One for the Money (Stephanie Plum 1)
He put the white pizza box and a six-pack on the kitchen counter and turned to me. “Looks like you're walking a little slow. How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Fortunately, Alpha's bullet tore through some fat and did most of its damage to the wall in the hallway.”
His smile had faded. “How are you really feeling?”
I'm not sure what it is about Morelli, but he never fails to strip my defenses. Even when I'm on guard, being watchful, Morelli can piss me off, turn me on, make me question my judgment, and, in general, provoke inconvenient emotions. Concern pinched the corners of his eyes, and there was a seriousness to his mouth that belied the casual tone of his question.
I bit down hard on my lip, but the tears came anyway, silently spilling down my cheeks.
Morelli gathered me into his arms and held me close He rested his cheek against the top of my head and pressed a kiss into my hair.
We stood like that for a long time, and if it hadn't been for the pain in my butt I might have fallen asleep, finally comforted and at peace, feeling safe in Morelli's arms.
“If I ask you a serious question,” Morelli murmured against my ear, “will you give me an honest answer?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you remember that time in my father's garage?”
&
nbsp; “Vividly.”
“And when we went at it in the bakery . . .”
“Un huh.”
“Why did you do it? Are my powers of persuasion really that strong?”
I tipped my head back to look at him. “I suspect it had more to do with curiosity and rebellion on my part.” Not to mention hormones on the rampage.
“So you're willing to share some of the responsibility?”
“Of course.”
The smile had returned to his mouth. “And, if I made love to you here in the kitchen . . . how much of the blame would you be willing to assume?”
“Jesus, Morelli, I've got seventeen stitches in my ass!”
He sighed. “Do you think we could be friends after all these years?”
This from the person who had tossed my keys into a Dumpster. “I suppose it's possible. We wouldn't have to sign a pact and seal it in blood, would we?”
“No, but we could belch over beer.”
“My kind of contract.”
“Good. Now that we have that settled, there's a ballgame I'd like to see, and you have my television.”
“Men always have ulterior motives,” I said, carting the pizza into the living room.
Morelli followed with the beer. “How do you manage this sitting business?”
“I have a rubber doughnut. If you make any cracks about it, I'll gas you.”
He shrugged out of his jacket and shoulder holster, hung them on the doorknob to my bedroom door, buzzed the TV on, and searched for his channel. “I got some reports for you,” he said. “Are you up to it?”
“A half hour ago I might have said no, but now that I have this pizza I'm up to anything.”