Free Stirring Attraction by Sara Jane Stone Page B

in for a morning cup of coffee.”
    â€œI was sound asleep.”
    His brow furrowed. “Did you—­”
    â€œI slept great. Thanks for asking,” she said before he uttered the word “nightmare.” “But I haven’t started the coffee yet. Give me ten minutes and I’ll invite you in.”
    She slammed the door and turned the bolt. Then she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the painted white door.
    â€œTake your time, Lil,” he murmured from the other side. “I’ll be right here.”
    She stepped back and headed down the hallway. In her room, she stripped off her dress and tossed it aside. She pulled out the top dresser drawer and rummaged through until she found a pair of flannel pajamas.
    Two minutes later, she returned to the front door, turned the lock, and held it open. “On second thought,” she said, “I’ll let you brew your own.”
    â€œThanks.” He walked into the entryway and paused, scanning her up and down. “Cold last night?”
    She looked down at the fabric covered with dancing penguins and polar bears. “No. But I love the pattern.”
    He nodded as if storing that fact for another day, maybe another life when he’d need to pick out a gift for her . . . and settle on clothes covered in arctic animals.
    â€œWhat time do you need to be at Big Buck’s?” he asked as he headed for her kitchen.
    â€œNot until eight tonight. Noah’s covering the first shift at the bar.” She followed him and opened the fridge as he reached for the coffeepot. “I’m mostly helping out when it gets busy.”
    â€œI called my dad last night.” He poured the grounds into the reusable filter. And she pulled a carton of orange juice from the middle shelf. The actions felt ordinary and comfortable.
    Almost as if I wake up screaming every day and he rushes in for breakfast. After spending the night in his car. . .
    â€œAnd how is our police chief?” she asked as she poured the juice.
    â€œFine.”
    Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him press the start button.
    â€œMy dad offered to make us breakfast,” he continued. “While he cooks, I can take a look at the file from your attack.”
    She set the carton and glass down on the counter. “I thought they closed the case.”
    â€œNot exactly. The case is still open. They don’t have any leads, but my dad agreed that a fresh set of eyes might help.” He turned and opened the cabinet containing the mugs with his left hand. “Plus, my father makes a mean omelet.”
    â€œI remember.”
    He glanced over his shoulder. “Honey, if you remembered his eggs you’d be racing to change out of your penguins and polar bears. My father’s a damn good policeman. But his omelets are out of this world. Go change. Shower if you want. I’ll make myself at home on your couch and wait.”
    â€œDo you expect to find something in the file?” she asked. “Do you think your dad missed something?”
    â€œI doubt it.” He turned back to the counter and filled his mug. “But it’s a place to start. Plus, I’d like to get cleaned up. Maybe while you chat with my dad.”
    He wouldn’t leave her alone. Not even for a shower . . .
    And he wanted to find the man. When everyone else said to move on, focus on healing . . .
    â€œYou’re going to try to find him,” she said. “The guy from the park.”
    He nodded.
    He’d promised before. And she’d chalked the claims up to alpha-­male bravado. But if he’d asked to see the files . . .
    She crossed the room and stopped in front of him, close enough to wrap her arms around him. But she didn’t touch him. She rose up on her tiptoes until her mouth was level with his ear. Then she leaned as close as she dared.
    â€œThank you.” She pressed her lips to