Someone take a frying pan to my face. Seriously. For real. Right now.
If I call my brothers, maybe one of them will shoot me and put me out of this misery. Hell, I’d take being knocked out right now.
Hello? Someone? Anyone?
The last time I felt this nauseated, I was waiting for my period after I’d lost my virginity.
Crap.
I nibble on my thumbnail, and hell, I need to shove this ridiculous nervousness the heck down, because it’s not like it’s a blind date Nonna set up. It’s not like I don’t know Drake. I know him better than I possibly should.
And maybe that’s the problem.
I know how dangerous this man could be to my heart. The most fiercely guarded part of me—not because she knows pain, but because she fears it. And if anyone, anyone, could inflict real pain on her, it’d be Drake.
Two more knocks sound at the door, and I stand up, feeling my own butt up to make sure my dress isn’t caught in my panties. Not that there’s much panty for them to be caught in. I mean, they’re definitely in the porn-star area of the panty chart.
I grab the door handle and open it. Or try to. Apparently, I didn’t think to unlock the door at any point this morning, so all the door does is nudge until it bangs against the frame, where the lock is still sticking into the frame.
Fuck my life in all the positions of the Kama Sutra.
I twist the key, and when the door clicks with the unlocking motion, I pull it open.
And set off my alarm.
It screeches through the house. My scream is short but loud as the high-pitched sound assaults my ears, and I drop my keys as I turn toward the alarm system block right by the door. I see Drake’s laugh rather than hear it on account of the noise reverberating off the walls, and if that smile wasn’t so fucking hot, I’d wipe it off his face with my boot.
I key in the code and the alarm dies. The silence is strangely deafening compared to the awful alarm. And just like that, the awkwardness hangs between us. At least, it does for me. A lot for me. All for me, okay? All for me.
“All right, cupcake?” Drake’s grin is lopsided, and he’s leaning against the doorframe. His ice-blue eyes are oddly warm, glittering with the laughter I know he’s struggling to keep inside. And the navy-blue Dallas Cowboys T-shirt he’s wearing clings to every part of his upper body, from his shoulders to his waist to his biceps.
And oh man. He makes them look good.
“That isn’t a great start to this date. That damn nickname drives me insane.”
His grin straightens and grows. “I know, but you ain’t allowed to be mad at me today. Nice, remember?”
“That’s askin’ a real lot,” I mumble. “Wait there.”
I turn into the front room, and with a little more tremble in my hand than I’d like, I grab my gun and lift my dress to slip it into my thigh holster. I know I could put it in my purse, but I feel more comfortable having it about my person. Drake has his at his hip, after all, and he’s off duty today.
“Gun between your tits?” he asks as I grab my purse and throw my phone into it.
“Perhaps,” I reply, stepping outside to join him on the top step. I slam the door shut and shove the key into the hole despite the elephants still raising a circus in my belly. “I’ll never tell you my tricks, Detective.”
“Drake.” He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me into him. He breathes over my shoulder since my head is still down from locking the door, but his firm hold squeezes my heart tight. “We ain’t workin’, Noelle. First date equals first names.”
“You say ‘first date’ like you know there’ll be a second.”
His fingers twitch against my hip. He ghosts his lips across my pulse until they hover at the curve of my collarbone. “I do. And a third. And fourth. And fifth. We’ll have so many fuckin’ dates you’re gonna lose count.”
His confidence is like whoa sexy.
“We’ll see,” I whisper. “Let’s get the first out of the way, shall we?”
“If you insist,” he murmurs, grasping me and turning me toward his truck. “You brought your gun?”
“I’m insulted you have to ask.”
“Good.” He pulls the door of his truck open and sweeps his arm for me to climb in.
I raise my eyebrow at him, because isn’t he supposed to help me in?
“Noelle, if I helped you in, you’d castrate me.”
“So a ten percent chance it’s wrong?”
The quirk of his eyebrow mirrors mine. “I’m tempted to take my chances.”
“This is a date.” Drake sweeps his arm around my waist. His fingers brush against the side of my stomach, and flutters erupt in the pit of my tummy when he uses his other hand to help boost me up and into the cab.
My butt brushes the edge of the seat, but he expertly deposits me onto it, and instead of releasing me when I’m safely seated, he leans in. The grin stretching across his face is smooth and sexy.
“Plenty of places I can think of lifting you like that.”
“You already did,” I drawl dryly. “Like my kitchen table.”
He pulls back, roaring with laughter, and trails his fingertips across my lower back as he lets me go. Damn those frickin’ shivers that cascade across my skin and through my pussy.
“Oh, babe,” he says, still laughing, paused at my door. “It’s gonna be a long fuckin’ day.”
“No shit,” I mutter, grabbing my seat belt as he shoves the door shut.
A really, really long day.
“Can you tell me where we’re goin’ yet?”
“Nope.” He smacks his lips together as he says it, starting the engine.
“Please.”
“No.”
“Pleeeeease.”
“Noelle,” he says with a sigh, but his lips are twitching. “Have I ever let you down?”
I open my mouth only for no sounds to come out. Well, no. He hasn’t. In fact, he’s always done more than what’s been expected of him. I shake my head.
“Then trust me.” He flicks his fingers against my thigh. He glances at me, his eyes piercing, and the secret they hold bugs the hell outta me.
Patience is a virtue. Obviously one that wasn’t bestowed upon me. Ever.
“Fine.” I mutter it and fold my arms like a petulant child.
He laughs—again. I’m pretty sure that, whenever Drake Nash writes his to-do list, he writes Fuck with Noelle at the top in big, black, capital letters. And adds a fucking smiley face after it, too.
“Nice weather,” he comments, still smiling from his laughter.
“If you like your weather hot and humid.”
“We live in Texas. What other kind of weather is there?”
“Storms…”
“Which are still hot and humid.”
“Then I like my hot-and-humid weather with a dash of lightning and a sprinkling of rain.” I click my tongue. “And asking about the weather, really? What are you, British?”
“It’s a conversation starter.”
“No. What’s your favorite movie? Or beer? Or animal? Or cupcake? Those are conversation starters. The weather is that awkward conversation you have when you’re forced to use the counter in the bank because the ATM is out of order.”
His eyes flick my way. “You go to the counter?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I hate people. I go to another ATM.”
“You hate people but work as a private investigator?”
I shift in the seat so I’m facing him. “My job is the reason I hate people. Do you know how many cheating spouses we found last month? Twenty-three. Twenty-three!”
“Okay, okay. Let’s talk about your acceptable conversation starters instead. What’s your favorite movie?”
“What’s yours?” I shoot back, grinning.
“Goldfinger.”
I want to say that my heart doesn’t stutter, but it does. Totally. Like a great, big freaking cough, actually. Possibly a full-blown choking fit.
How is my favorite movie his favorite movie?
“Noelle? Favorite movie.”
“You stole my answer,” I huff. “So I’m going with Ten Things I Hate About You.”