Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Yes, isn’t he totes lickable?”
Actually, yes, he was. But it was the other guy that held Z’s curiosity.
“He’s married, sweetie.”
Cindy’s face fell for half a second and then lit right up again. “You mean he’s straight? Halle-fucking-lujah.”
Shaking his head, Z pushed through the doors and made his way to table three to deliver their food while he tried to tame the wild fluttering inside him. It wasn’t nerves.
He didn’t get nervous anymore.
It was just a strange kind of anxious eagerness he’d never felt before. It bubbled up through his limbs until his arms felt heavy and his chest felt light. Disconcerting, for sure. With effort he slammed the lid on the ridiculous giddiness and schooled his features into a mask of polite interest before approaching table four, Detective Connelly Reid, the closeted gay cop who kissed like a master and then couldn’t meet your eye.
Yeah, that guy.
The one Z could never—would never—hook up with.
“Afternoon, gentlemen. All set to order?” He made a point not to look at Hot Fudge because he was still pissed. He should have traded the table with Becca, but his curiosity was too strong.
“Hi, I’m Raoul Barnes.” His smile was dazzling as he stuck out his hand in greeting.
“Uh, hi.” They shook.
“You’re Azariah...” Raoul paused as if waiting for Z to fill in the blank space.
Had Connelly talked about him? He couldn’t tell.
Hot Fudge buried his face in his hands and groaned. “Fucking hell, Raoul. Why do you insist on being such an asshat?” Finally, Connelly looked up. “Please, just ignore him.”
Z lifted a shoulder in what he hoped looked like a careless gesture, confusion and bitterness warring within him, but he kept his cool. “No worries. So, I know you want the roast beef melt with Swiss on rye. Right?”
Connelly’s smile was warm and sweet, contrite and full of gratitude. Like the hot fudge he indulged in, it slid over Z’s resistance and left it melted. “Exactly. And a Diet Coke.”
“And a sundae for dessert.”
“You are too good.”
When he turned to Raoul again the guy looked way too pleased with himself.
“And you?” Z asked, ignoring the officer’s knowing grin.
“I’m going to have the Italian panini, a side of fries and iced tea. Oh, and do you guys do anything for birthdays? Today my man here turns twenty-eight.”
Connelly’s pained groan almost made Z laugh. He’d thought for sure Hot Fudge was over thirty. He seemed so put together and responsible. Plus, didn’t cops have to work for decades before becoming a detective? Either this guy was a prodigy or he had absolutely no life outside of work.
That last idea made Z pause.
He didn’t want to picture Connelly chained to a desk. Those warm eyes deserved to be seen and appreciated, preferably while their owner was deep inside a lover’s ass.
Fuck. Definitely the wrong place for those kinds of fantasies. Z cleared his throat and pasted on a smile. “Happy birthday.”
Still giving his partner the evil eye, Connelly replied with a simple, “Thanks.”
“We normally bring the whole crew out to sing.”
“Hell, no.” Connelly looked up at him in horror.
“Okay, do you at least want a cake instead of your sundae? On the house, of course.”
“No. I just want the usual.” And then, “I’m sorry.”
The way he said the last bit held more importance than dessert warranted but Z understood. Connelly felt bad about the way things went down but couldn’t do the apology justice with his partner as a witness.
Their eyes held for a fraction of a second longer than was natural, but neither seemed in a hurry to look away. Those eyes though, they brought to life all kinds of wicked things in Z’s imagination. Wicked, delicious, dazzling things that he could drown in without complaint.
He bit his lip just as Connelly’s nostrils flared. A second later Raoul cleared his throat and Z blinked. “Um, right. I’ll be back with your drinks.”
As he walked away, he could feel Connelly’s gaze tracking him. Because he could, he added extra swish to his strut.
* * *
Connelly didn’t savor his lunch. He ate way too fast for any flavor to touch his tongue. He didn’t even smell it because his brain was too distracted with images of Azariah—naked and wanting. And of course Raoul sat across the table with his smug-ass smile firmly in place and nibbled his goddamn food like a fucking princess.
He’d kill him, but then he’d be stuck without a partner because sure as shit no one else in his precinct would want to partner up with the murderous gay guy.
Azariah brought the sundae complete with extra whipped cream, sprinkles and two cherries. Beside it he’d placed a napkin with Happy Birthday written in ink, the handwriting so graceful yet bold it could only be from Azariah. No one else could ever produce such a mix of soft loops and sharp corners. He didn’t take his eyes off the note as he ate his dessert.