Griffin cleared his throat, the leader back in full force. “I’ll send a car at three sharp.”
And because David was David, he groaned like a raging orgasm was about to plow through him. “Ahh, God. I love it when you order me around.”
Griffin laughed, even though it sounded strained. “See you tomorrow.”
The line went dead and David’s smile quickly died. Because when he thought about orgasms, he sure as hell wasn’t thinking about his best friend. He adjusted his pants as the image of a heart-shaped face with ivory skin assaulted him all over again. As if he hadn’t been tortured enough that day. He willed himself to be monkish; after all, he’d been doing it for years. But as usual, Kelsey’s presence wedged itself nice and tight into his mind, ignoring all reason or truth. She burned brightly behind his eyelids. The image of her face, the memory of her hands slowly pulling out his shirt, didn’t do anything to soften his body.
He buttoned his shirt, then slid on his shoes. Griffin didn’t say it, but he was scared shitless that Wes was planning something that would destroy the Ofarian future. Griffin needed Wes in custody, and that was David’s job. Emily was the strongest lead he had.
Which meant Kelsey was about to get some good, old-fashioned David Capshaw begging.
The San Francisco night was colder than usual, and David hadn’t bothered to wear a coat. The deep breath he drew shot sharp and icy into his lungs. He lifted his hand and knocked.
Kelsey opened the door to her town house with the same expression she’d worn during their matching ceremony. Eyes round as marbles, mouth slightly agape. A deer in headlights.
David clenched a fist. If she was the deer, then he was the car. He fucking hated being the car.
Brush it off. Put her at ease. He dipped his chin and grinned up at her. “Hi?”
She startled out of her shock. “Oh. Hi. What are you doing here?”
It took all his effort to cement his smile in place. “I, um . . .” He rubbed the edge of the gauze through his shirt.
She stretched out a hand. “Are you in pain? Is there something wrong with the spell?”
So easily he could take that freebie and run with it. He could pretend to have complications or discomfort, let her peel off his shirt again.
“I’m not here for me,” he said, while his brain screamed, LIAR! “I just got off the phone with Griffin and I need to talk to you.”
“Oh. You couldn’t have called?”
Ouch.
He deflected, as usual, widening his smile and jutting a thumb over his shoulder. “You want me to go sit in the park across the street and call you instead? It’s colder than ass out here, but I’ll do it.”
Her cheeks pinked and her gaze fell to the floor. Suddenly she looked twelve years younger. He loved how her loose, shiny hair swished across her cheeks. He hadn’t seen her wear it down since, hell, their matching ceremony six months ago.
When she lifted her face to him again, any hint of blush had disappeared. She gave him a companionable, controlled nod and stepped aside. “Sorry. Come in.”
A set of steep, narrow stairs rose to the main floor and he followed her up. She wore jeans, of all things, that hung low on her hips and curved tightly around her ass. A huge hole in the denim gaped over her right knee and a small hole had just begun to fray under her left ass cheek. She wore a bra under her white tank top, the double sets of straps a weird attraction for him. The way her skin pebbled in the cold air, the slight push of her nipples against her clothing, challenged him to think straight.
Even though he’d always known where she lived, he’d never been here. Had never built up the courage to stop by. In truth, it was a miracle she was home now, given that her work was her life. But everything usually slowed down for the gala and rites, and he’d taken a chance that had paid off.
Her townhome’s furnishings reflected the in-and-out nature of her domestic life—sparse but tidy, very little design. A few random prints of flowers and trees were slapped up on the wall. The granite kitchen counters were bare except for an open bottle of wine and a single, half-empty glass. Sort of lonesome, actually.
It reminded him of his place.
She clutched the back of one of only two kitchen table chairs. Her eyes darted around, like he’d burst in just as she was hiding her lover in a closet. Oh, he hated that thought.
“You’re right,” he said. “I should’ve called. Didn’t mean to make you nervous by just showing up.”
She looked coolly offended that he’d called out her agitation, as though she never allowed herself to be nervous. Come to think of it, he’d never seen her this way.
“Not at all,” she said. “It’s just . . .”
He smiled and leaned against the banister that zigzagged upstairs. “That whole ‘We were supposed to get married’ thing?”
What the hell was he saying? The question just spilled out. And it was too late to mop it up.
She choked a little, like she’d swallowed something too hot. Then, in classic Kelsey fashion—the Kelsey he recognized—she rolled back her shoulders and stared him right in the eye. His turn to be unsettled, because all he could think was, God, you’re beautiful.
“Since you mentioned it,” she said. “Yes.”
“Oh.” He ran a hand around the back of his neck, thrown by the fact he had no idea how to decipher her direct statement. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.” Not really.
“Okay.” Her shoulders sagged. Just a tad. “So what’s up?”
He pulled away from the banister, the action nudging him closer to her. Her divine chest lifted beneath the thin cotton of her tank top. Why had he come here again? Oh, yeah. Emily Pritchart . . .
“I was just talking with Griffin, and I, uh, I wanted to ask—holy shit, that’s a fat cat.”
A black basketball of fur waddled down the stairs. At least twenty pounds, probably more. The thing was downright glaring at David.
Kelsey covered her mouth with a hand, but behind her fingers he glimpsed his favorite smile. “He’s not that big,” she said.
“No, seriously. That’s the fattest cat I’ve ever seen. What the hell do you feed that thing?”
She dropped her hand and there it was, the most perfect bow of a mouth, two shallow dimples set into her smooth cheeks. She made a cooing noise and scooped up the cat with a grunt.
He said, “Don’t throw your back out.”
“Aw, leave poor Dante alone.”
“Dante?” David reached out to scratch the feline behind its ears. A paw that looked too small to support all that bulk batted him away. Dante’s ears shot back, his teeth bared in a hiss. “Perfect name,” David mumbled.
“Sorry.” Kelsey dropped the cat and David swore the house shook. “Nobody can touch his head but me.”
Dante tottered into the living room and plopped down in the middle of the braided rug.
She cleared her throat. “I opened a bottle of Zinfandel. Would you like a glass?”
“I probably shouldn’t. One turns to two, two turns to four, and then I’m streaking and TP’ing Griffin’s house.”
Or kissing you and telling you exactly how I feel, no matter the damage to my heart.
She flashed him her smile. The opposite of nervous, the very definition of joy.
“So . . . was that a yes or no? It’s always so hard to tell with you.”
He held up a hand. “No, that’s okay. I’m on duty early tomorrow and Griffin wants me with him when he gets the Fragment from the vault. I can just see my hungover ass dropping the thing.”
“Wow, he asked you to do that?”