I chuckled and let my question go. I breathed in the moment, enjoying the feel of my hand in his.
When we got to the elevator, Boxer pushed the button and the doors opened immediately. He tugged me inside and pressed the lobby button. And when we had privacy, he gently maneuvered me against a wall.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Kissing you in an elevator.” He flashed an arrogant grin, and then his lips found mine. His hand was at my waist, and his tongue slid into my mouth.
My hands wandered up his body to slip beneath the fabric of his flannel shirt. His skin was warm. I wanted to strip him down and examine every single piece of his body art.
The doors opened.
Boxer ended our kiss—far sooner than I was ready for him to—and stared down at me. He didn’t say anything, he just quirked his lips into a knowing smile and brushed a thumb across my cheek.
I was sure my face was beet red as we walked hand in hand across the lobby. Jerry’s eyes darted between us.
“Have a good night, Jerry,” I called to him.
“You too,” he murmured.
We stepped out into the brisk evening and walked through the waning sunlight a few feet to Boxer’s truck. He opened the passenger door for me.
“Thank you,” I said, climbing into the seat.
He shut the door and then went around to the driver’s side.
“So, Adderly McLintock Ford,” I began. “That’s an unusual name.”
“You’re one to talk.”
I laughed. “Fair enough. Where did Adderly come from? Family name?”
He turned on the truck. “You like jazz?”
“I don’t listen to it much.”
Boxer looked at me and grinned. He pressed a button on his steering wheel, and the warbling notes of jazz began to filter through the speakers. After a few moments of getting situated, he put the truck into gear, and we were on our way.
“My pops was a bass player in a jazz band. Loved Count Basie, Charles Mingus, and some other greats of their time. But he was really into this saxophone player from the ’60s named Cannonball Adderly.”
“Is that who we’re listening to now?”
“Yeah,” he said with a roguish grin.
“Ah, and it all becomes clear.” I smiled. “Your mom went along with it.”
He smirked. “Yeah, she went along with it. She was the one who saddled me with the middle name McLintock. John Wayne fan. They humored each other that way.”
“Sweet.”
“Sweet,” he repeated. “Yeah.”
I looked at him in confusion. His expression was suddenly closed off. I wondered if I’d accidentally unearthed something that he had wished to remain buried.
“When did you get your first tattoo?” I asked, wanting to lighten the conversation.
“Sixteen. I was trying to impress a girl.”
“Did it work?”