Chapter 18
Luke
“You’re giving the speech?” I held her close, her curves relaxed against me, giving me all the endorphins—and other ideas. “That’s great,” I said, since I could tell this was a significant moment to her—although I couldn’t say why.
Despite all my years of cardiac study, I sure didn’t know a lot about the other kind of heart. For the first time, I felt desperate to understand someone else’s heart.
Sheridan’s.
Rain began to sprinkle in the balmy night air, tiny pinpricks of coolness against my cheek and neck. She snuggled into me against it. Her breathing steadied, matching with my own. My pulse throbbed, and I caught another momentary taste of that feeling I’d experienced in the dream—a quick gush of it. Fleeting. I tilted my head down to observe her as she clung to me. My hands pressed her closer, wishing there were a closeness beyond even full-body contact.
The kiss. I need that kiss.
I needed her to look at me the way she had in the dream, with lovelight beaming from her eyes, with a mixture of desire and admiration and adoration. I pictured it, the memory rushing upward, a surging tide. It overtook me, and I succumbed to it.
I’m falling for this woman. Whether it’s the dream girl or the real one, I’ve almost arrived at the L-word. Love? Yeah, love.
This woman who cared about and helped other people, who adored her parents and served them, who liked old rock bands and owned a Bronco, who came to the defense of the weak, who’d experienced so much personal loss but continued to smile and give and nurture.
Yeah, I wanted to be somebody to her. And I wanted to put the starlight in her sky just so she’d break into that gorgeous smile, the one that she reserved for when she was really pleased.
She stirred, pulling back, and looked up at me. The moonlight had returned, and it danced in her light green eyes so full of vulnerability. Her lips were full, beckoning.
I moved my hand up her waist and cupped the curve of her jaw, tracing her cheek with my thumb. So soft, her skin, so perfect.
“You’re amazing,” I whispered, angling downward, already feeling the velvet of her lips without even brushing them, already tasting the cinnamon of her breath, soaking up the—
“Excuse me.” We were interrupted by a harsh male voice, accompanied by stomping footfalls on the pathway. “Dr. Hotwell? We thought we might find you here.”
Sheridan pulled out of my grasp and stepped aside, chilling me instantly.
“Yes?” I said. “If there’s a medical emergency, I’m afraid you’ll need to choose a different doctor.” I was on forced leave.
“No, we were looking for you specifically. A customer inside Bacon posted about your presence there on social media.”
Dawsonside. “And?”
“You’re needed down at the station.”
At that point, my eyes adjusted to looking at something besides my rosy future in the depths of Sheridan’s soul and recognized his police uniform.
“Don’t worry”—his palm patted the air—“we’ve apprehended someone and need your victim statement.”
“You caught Luke’s attacker?” Sheridan gasped. “Who is it?”
“Someone came in and confessed. If you could come downtown and identify him, please.”
Lame ending to that almost-kiss. Fifteen not-kissing-Sheridan minutes later, I was in a much less pleasant situation. The Torrey Junction police station smelled of stale coffee and dirty socks. Sheridan was still with me, had brought me downtown, and had been allowed to come into the questioning room with me. Torrey Junction police were more about decorations—the room was full of potted ferns and motivational plaques—than regulations.
“Why did you want to come?” I asked her while the police were busy with paperwork and had left us alone. “It’s fine, but you don’t need to be here.” I could’ve managed.
Sheridan shrugged. “Fire stations and police stations interest me. Rescue workers.”
Huh.
The officer brought in the suspect, who had apparently confessed.
“It was dark,” the guy sitting across the table said. He looked distraught. I didn’t recognize him at all, but his size and build matched that of the person who whacked me in the parking garage last month.