Meet Cute, Elise Faber [audio ebook reader .TXT] 📗

her, the confusion I felt in my head probably obvious on my face. “Since you think they’re torture, then clearly you have no appreciation for the great, gloriousness of an excellent cliff-hanger in the world of literary fiction.”

I captured a lock of her hair between thumb and forefinger. “What’s your favorite book?”

Her brows lifted, suspicion in her tone. “Why do you ask?”

“Because, apparently I need to expand my horizons.”

“And you’ll do that by reading my suggestions?”

“Sure, why not?”

More flickers across her face, more barbed memories and pain in those eyes. Then she turned away, the strand of her hair slipping from my fingers, and headed to the oven, peeking inside.

Her voice was quiet as she retrieved a spatula and brought the pan to the table, serving up the breasts, “I really like . . .”

And then she told me about her favorite books, which I jotted down in the notes section of my phone, making mental reminders to buy out Amazon of her suggestions and to get reading.

Her cheeks flushed pink after she’d spoken for several minutes on end, her eyes going to my plate. “Oh God, I’ve been blabbering on, and you haven’t even eaten. Go on,” she said, nudging my food closer. “Eat while it’s hot, baby. I can’t have my world-famous chicken parmesan going to waste.”

Baby.

More heart thumping.

But I didn’t comment on the endearment, just picked up my fork and knife and began chowing down.

It was delicious.

But I didn’t get much chance to eat—or at least not while it was hot—because then she asked me more about my work, and I asked her more about hers. I found out about the adorable little Milk Caper. She found out about my favorite film to date—a small indie one where my character had barely had two lines.

And . . . we just talked.

For hours, eating occasional bits of lukewarm chicken, finishing off the salad, before I got up and retrieved a pint of ice cream from the freezer, sitting next to her at the table instead of across like we’d been positioned over dinner.

“You only grabbed one spoon,” she murmured.

I waggled my brows. “I know.”

So, over bites of ice cream with a shared spoon, our legs tangling, our bodies leaning closer and closer, we talked about everything and nothing—TV and books, movies we both loved, places to travel that were on our bucket lists. It was one of those conversations that a person never wanted to end.

But then she began yawning, her eyes drooping closed.

I pushed away the empty ice cream container then stood, scooping her into my arms.

“Tal,” she murmured.

“What’s up, sweetheart?”

“The dishes. I should—” Her head flopped onto my shoulder, another yawn wracking her frame.

My lips curved. “I’ve got them.”

“Doesn’t exist.”

“Hmm?”

“A man who does dishes . . .” She trailed off. “. . . doesn’t . . . ex . . .”

And with that, she fell asleep in my arms. I carried her down the hall, tucked her under the blankets, and returned to do the dishes. Then when I was done, I crammed myself back into that chair at the bedside and slipped into oblivion, studying the peaceful expression on her face.

It was the best night of my life.

Hands down.

Chapter Eighteen

Tammy

I woke up with sunlight blinding me through my closed eyes for the second time in as many days.

The man needed to invest in blackout shades.

With my ever-changing shifts at the sheriff’s office, they’d become an absolute lifesaver. I could sleep in, never worrying about the position of the sun in the sky, or the giant, gas bastard’s rays streaming into my eyelids.

Especially this California sunshine.

It never seemed to quit.

I stretched, my arm aching, but in a way that was much more manageable than the previous day. No heavy-duty painkillers would be needed today, that was for sure, but I might hit up Talbot for some ibuprofen.

Squinting against the sun, I slowly pushed up . . .

And saw Talbot, himself, sleeping in the chair next to the bed, his neck at an angle that had to be uncomfortable, his lips parted slightly, his breathing slow and steady. He hadn’t shaved since before the party, and his jaw was filled with stubble, a rough patch I’d felt beneath my fingertips several times the previous day. Now it was even longer, approaching more beard than not, and the man could definitely pull off a beard.

Something buzzed, and my gaze was drawn to the nightstand, where I was surprised to see my cell was plugged in.

Quietly picking it up and trying desperately to not think how far down the rabbit hole of Talbot I’d gone the previous day—straight past keeping distance and right into both feet in the fire—I unplugged my cell and looked at the screen.

Yesterday might have been stupid, but I couldn’t bring myself to regret it, not when the man was . . . well, a man I’d always dreamed of.

He’d been thoughtful and kind and . . . I was going to soak that up.

I was too addicted to the way he made me feel to do anything besides that. Who knew the next time I’d be shacked up with a movie star? I might as well live it up.

Now, however, my cell buzzed again.

I glanced down to see the sheriff himself had texted me.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

Rob was the one who’d hired me, and as a former detective and newly elected sheriff, I didn’t want to piss him off. Not only was he my boss, but he was also my mentor, and he’d taken me under his wing when I’d expressed interest in going for detective.

Not that there was any space on the payroll or in the department for hiring another full-time position, but Rob had still helped me with training and given me opportunities to learn.

He was another one of the good guys.

Too bad he was married.

Trepidation in my veins, my fingertips trembling, I unlocked my screen and read the message.

Report in.

Well, that didn’t give much for me to go on, did