Free Stand By Your Man by Susan Fox Page A

came back, he sat on the edge of the bed and offered her a glass of icy cold water. “You know you’re too good for me, right?” His expression was surprisingly serious.
    Still, he had to be joking. Tongue in cheek, she said, “Totally.” Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she felt the pleasant ache of muscles, inside and out, that hadn’t been used for a long time. Muscles that had never been so thoroughly exercised. She took the glass and had a long, refreshing swallow of water.
    â€œOkay then.” He still looked serious. “Just as long as you realize I’m not exactly perfect.”
    He was probably thinking about how his two crappy families and his undercover work didn’t give him much of a foundation for knowing how to build a relationship. A family. She put the glass on the bedside table and captured his hand. “No one’s perfect.”
    â€œYou have high standards.”
    â€œAnd you’ll measure up. We need to keep talking, keep trying. Be honest with each other.”
    He freed his hand and reached for the glass. “Want to think about dinner?”
    â€œI thought we could go to the Wild Rose.”
    â€œTomorrow.”
    Her brows rose. On the job, he outranked her. If he thought he could boss her around in their personal lives, he had a lesson to learn.
    â€œI brought Thai food,” he said.
    â€œThe cooler bag,” she remembered.
    â€œYou said you like Thai and can’t get it here.”
    Okay, not bossy. Considerate. “I love Thai. Jamal, that’s so sweet of you.”
    He winced, which made her chuckle.

Chapter 7
    Half an hour later, after Jamal and Karen had shared a shower and a steamy quickie, he sat at her kitchen table. He could get used to this: having great sex; spending time with a beautiful, strong woman; contemplating a future he’d never before imagined. Didn’t hurt, either, that the kitchen smelled of spicy Thai food.
    They’d heated the tom kha gai soup and spooned it into two large bowls. The rest of the food—chicken with red curry and bamboo shoots, ginger beef with onions and mushrooms, pad Thai, and a big container of jasmine rice—sat on the counter waiting to be nuked.
    Karen, again clad in that sexy green sundress, leaned into the fridge. “Beer?”
    â€œNo, thanks. I’m good with water.”
    â€œSeriously?” She poured a bottle of Caribou Crossing Pale Ale into a glass for herself and came to sit across from him. “Beer’s perfect with Thai food.”
    â€œYou think? I like water.” He swallowed, imagining the taste of beer, the way he’d done millions of times in two years of sobriety. Hurriedly, he spooned up some soup. The flavors of chicken, coconut milk, mushrooms, lemongrass, and spices mingled on his tongue.
    This was going to get tough, finding reasons to avoid drinking. He couldn’t do the empty-the-bottle thing in Karen’s kitchen, like he did in the bar after shooting hoops. On the job, he sometimes used that trick, but had other pretenses as well, depending on the circumstances. He might say he was into drugs, and booze was too lightweight. Or he’d pretend to be “above” the pitiful people who needed drugs and booze.
    â€œI’m not much for drinking these days,” he said. “Like I said before, when you work undercover, it can get to be a bad habit. Besides, the last couple times I had a drink, it didn’t agree with me.” Back in the bedroom, she’d told him they had to be honest, and every word he’d spoken was true.
    â€œHmm. Maybe you’ve developed an allergy. You should see a doctor.” She lifted her glass. “Not that I’m a big drinker, but it’s nice to have a beer or a glass of wine when you feel like it.”
    â€œYeah.” She could say that again. Maybe it’d be okay now—now that he wasn’t doing undercover work, now that he’d