He surprised her by taking her to the Metropolitan Opera House to see The Nutcracker, and she held his hand all the way through it, tears blurring her vision as she watched the snowflakes and the Sugar Plum Fairy and remembered all the times her grandmother had taken her when she was young.
Lucas leaned closer. “I can imagine you in a tiny pink tutu and tights. I bet you were cute.”
“I was cute, but a little clumsy. I was the only Sugar Plum Fairy who fell over her own feet. I didn’t know you liked the ballet, too.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because I know you do.”
She was deeply touched, not just that he’d done that for her but because he’d listened and stored the information when she’d told him she’d done this with her grandmother.
“For an arrogant cynic, you can be pretty thoughtful. And as your reward I’m going to dress up and dance for you later.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’d prefer it if you undressed and danced for me.”
He didn’t mind that she was untidy, or that she was terrible in the mornings. She didn’t mind that he locked himself away for long periods in his study.
Once he came out with a thunderous look on his face and she froze, wondering what had happened.
“You have writer’s block?”
“Have you been in my study?”
“Yes. You weren’t there but I left a plate of cookies and an herbal tea on your desk.”
“You changed my manuscript.”
“Excuse me?” Eva opened her eyes wide, trying to look innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure.”
“You are a truly terrible liar. You can’t have two FBI agents hugging.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with supporting your colleagues at work? I happen to think it makes them more human. They witnessed something horrible.”
“Eva, I’m writing a horror story.”
“Well, now it’s a little less horrific. You’re welcome.”
He ran his hand over the back of his neck and looked at her in exasperation. “Eva—”
“What? I read a few pages and those two clearly have chemistry. I thought maybe they could get together and fall in love. What is wrong with trying to put something happy in your book?”
“You’ve killed the tension.”
“I have?” As someone who wasn’t good with tension, it sounded like praise. “Good.”
“It’s not good, Eva. It’s not good.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“You want me to write happy thrillers?”
“It could be a whole new genre. It might be a big hit.”
“My career would be over.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”