Maybe It's Real Read online

  Chloe shook her head and watched him pace down the short driveway, punching at his phone.

  After a brief conversation, Owen disconnected and came back to Chloe. “They didn’t hold the table.”

  Shocker. Okay. Time to wrap up this failure. “Don’t worry about it. Some things are not meant to be. Rain check?”

  When, or more likely if he decided to take a second run at it, she’d gracefully decline his call.

  “Oh. Perhaps we could…? No, that’s fine,” Owen said, following it up with the loudest stomach growl Chloe had ever heard.

  Startled, she burst out laughing.

  His lips twitched.

  “Hungry?” Chloe asked. “When did you last eat?”

  He rolled his eyes skyward as he calculated. “Sometime around ten, eleven this morning?”

  “Are you serious? Do you know what that’s doing to your blood sugar levels? Or your blood pressure? For god’s sake, come inside, would you?” Chloe reached out and took his arm.

  Owen didn’t move. “Why?”

  She tugged, walking backward. “I’m making you something to eat before you head home. Come on, detective. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  Owen allowed Chloe to drag him across the threshold into her apartment. At the mere thought of the incoming food, his stomach growled again.

  A pastry with his coffee while he and Jim waited in their car for a suspect to arrive at work so they could saunter in, embarrass him in front of his co-workers and question him about his whereabouts hadn’t been enough to carry Owen through the next hour, let alone the afternoon and evening until he arrived, late, on Chloe’s doorstep.

  He didn’t need his detective skills to deduce that he hadn’t made a great impression.

  Today had been one of his less fun days as a cop.

  While he hadn’t been shot at, spit on, had anything thrown at him or been obliged to call the paramedics, he had ended up in a foot chase with Jim and three beat cops through busy streets.

  Owen had been the one to tackle the fleeing perp in a filthy back alley, and he didn’t even feel any triumph at it.

  The courier transporting drugs across territories had been a skinny kid who’d celebrated his eighteenth birthday on Saturday and got arrested on Monday, meaning that instead of juvie and probation, he’d be sentenced and detained as an adult.

  Owen and Jim had interviewed him for hours trying to get him to implicate the asshole they knew he was working for, but the kid had stayed strong. Or he was more afraid of his boss than anything law enforcement could throw at him. Even the offer of a possibly reduced sentence couldn’t sway him.

  Owen had completely forgotten his date with Chloe. It made it about the first time he’d stopped thinking about her since Friday night. He’d scrambled when he checked the time and saw that it was already past seven.

  He’d been a crumpled, rumpled mess. It would have taken him forty minutes to drive home, ten to shower and change, and then another forty minutes, at least, to get to her apartment.

  So he’d showered at the station and changed into the only clean shirt he had in his locker. This effort had turned out to be next to useless, as the shirt had an old bloodstain on it that he hadn’t been able to wash out.

  Owen had hoped she wouldn’t notice the stain, lost as it was amongst the creases, but her attention had gone right to it.

  As if he didn’t feel enough of a loser, showing up late and dressed as if he’d rolled out of bed after a weekend bender, Chloe had dressed up for their date.

  She was beautiful.

  Her long pale-yellow dress was fitted to the waist then had a flowing skirt to her ankles, where he spotted some intriguing strappy sandals. Flats again. Her long dark hair, which had been braided on Friday, was in loose waves and swept over one tanned shoulder. Her makeup was light but there, a shimmer of pink on her lids and her cheeks, but not her lips.

  Probably she’d chewed it off while fretting that she was about to be stood up.

  Chloe’s apartment was small and welcoming, the plain furnishings accented with bright splashes of color. Scarlet cushions were piled on a cream couch. Cream pots with bamboo plants flanked the bay window, and the bookcase to one side was crammed with an eclectic mix of books and framed photos. The air was fresh and smelled like lavender, and a patch of evening sun spilled over the floor. Two armchairs were arranged to make the most of the space, one in the center of the room at ninety degrees to the couch, and the other tucked out of the way by the window.

  There was a lot of seating for a one-person apartment.

  But then, he expected that Chloe had people over all the time. So maybe not.

  His rathole apartment had one piece of furniture in the living room, a couch, and he slept on it as often as he slept in his bed.

  “This place is great,” he said as he followed Chloe to her kitchen. He’d been braced for macramé, crystals, maybe a few scarves draped around. Instead, it was…soothing.

  “Thanks. It’s kinda small, but I love it. I’ve been here about ten years and I’ve pretty much got it how I like it.” She beamed.

  Owen had been at his apartment for ten months. Apart from the bedroom and bathroom, it looked almost the same as it had the day he moved in. Boxes. Lots of boxes.

  He should make more of an effort.

  Chloe bustled over to the fridge and opened it. Hands on hips, she scanned the shelves. Her curvy figure was limned by the interior light. “What do you feel like?”

  You, he thought. He managed not to let the word escape. He wasn’t here for that. No more one-night stands.

  This was a date.

  He could do it. He wanted to do it.

  Okay, no he didn’t, but he’d gotten cornered into doing it, and thus far he’d failed miserably.

  “Let me tell you the options,” Chloe said into the silence. “I can’t offer you steak, but… Hold on.” She snapped her fingers. “Yes, I can.”

  A steak would be amazing. A thick, juicy steak and a cold beer, and he must have done something good in a former life to deserve this—

  Chloe shot a teasing look over her shoulder and added, “Tofu steak.”

  She was joking. Her fading smile told him he’d taken too long to react. “Ha ha,” Owen said dutifully.

  This was a bad idea. He needed to leave. He wasn’t doing well here, and he was so fucking tired, things could only get worse.

  She pushed on gamely. “BLT? No bacon, I should be clear from the start on that one, but I do have facon.”

  BLT? His stomach groaned. “What the hell is facon?”

  “It’s vegetarian. Fake bacon? No?”

  “I’m hungry but, uh, not that hungry.” He’d rather stop at a drive-thru on the way home and pick up a satisfying bucket of salt and fat, cunningly disguised as fried chicken. What the hell, he’d have a burger and fries as well. “Maybe I should go.”

  “Relax, Owen, and sit. I was teasing you about the facon. Unless you feel like opening yourself up to new experiences…? Never mind. I was teasing. I assume you eat grilled cheese?”

  “Will the cheese be in a sandwich?” he asked. Couldn’t hurt to check. This was, after all, a woman who voluntarily ate something called facon.

  “Yes. When it comes to bread, I even use the good stuff. San Francisco sourdough.”

  “Then yes, I eat grilled cheese.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” She pulled packets of cheese and butter from the fridge and closed the door.

  Owen blinked dry eyes and realized he’d zoned out for a second, because suddenly Chloe was over by the stove and saying something. “What?” he asked.

  “I said sit down before you fall down.” She pointed at the kitchen table. It was painted a warm, pale yellow, and none of the chairs matched. He selected the sturdiest looking one and dropped into it.

  Chloe whisked behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder and giving it a friendly squeeze as she passed. When she reappeared, she was tapping at her iPhone
.

  Soft acoustic guitar music from Bluetooth speakers on the windowsill behind the sink filled the room. Chloe turned on the burner and busied herself slicing bread.

  Owen cleared his throat, trying to think of something to say. Chloe glanced over at him with interest, but he came up blank and gave her a small shrug instead.

  The music was calming. Chloe hummed along in broken snatches. Owen smiled down at the table. She probably didn’t know she was doing it.

  This was nice. He was actually relaxing.

  His body felt heavy as tension seeped from his muscles. His breathing deepened to long, slow inhales and exhales, and his mind quieted.

  Any minute now, he might even be able to come up with some witty conversation and sexy banter.

  Any minute…

  Something soft brushed over the back of his neck.

  Owen jolted awake—ah, shit, he’d fallen asleep at the table?—and then he jolted even harder as hot liquid rushed down his chest.

  What the…?

  Hot liquid.

  Owen shoved the chair back and jumped to his feet, pinching the wet fabric of his shirt and pulling it away from his skin. He glared down at Chloe, who was standing with a now-empty coffee cup in one hand and a plate with a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato wedges on the side, in the other, her blue eyes wide as she stared up at him.

  Her gaze tracked down to the enormous and spreading wet patch on his shirt. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “Don’t ever sneak up on a cop,” some asshole snarled.

  It was him.

  Great. She was standing there, serving him, and he was telling her off. Goddammit.

  “It’s not as if I came out of nowhere.” Chloe set the plate on the table. She looked into the coffee cup, at his shirtfront, and this time when she bit her lip it was to hide a smile. She gestured at him with the cup. “I’m going to make you another one of these.”

  “I don’t want coffee. But thanks.”

  He wanted beer.

  No.

  Whiskey.

  He wanted whiskey.

  “I don’t care,” Chloe said. “You fell asleep, Owen, and as you’ll be leaving—” she emphasized the word firmly, “—once you’ve eaten, to get in a car and drive across the city, I’m going to make sure you’re wide awake when you do it.”

  He stiffened. “I won’t drive if I’m compromised. I’d never do that.”

  Chloe poured out another cup of coffee from the carafe and came back over to him. She put the cup on the table by the plate. “Okay,” she said with a big sigh. “Shirt off.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your shirt. Take it off.”

  Owen gave her a look.

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “You want to sit there and eat your sandwich in a wet shirt? Forgive me for sounding like a cheap porno but, come on, officer. Let’s get you out of those wet things.”

  “Detective.”

  “Officer, detective, supreme commander. Whip it off. Promise I won’t look. I’m gonna go and grab you a T-shirt.”

  “I don’t think any of your T-shirts will fit me,” Owen called after her as she hurried off.

  She didn’t reply.

  Fine. He made short work of the buttons and stripped the shirt off. His undershirt was less wet, so he pulled it over his head and used it to blot his damp chest before dropping it on the chair.

  Owen’s head turned at the noise from the doorway.

  Chloe stood there, big-eyed and pink-cheeked.

  “Thought you weren’t looking?” He knew his voice had dropped to a low rumble, but he couldn’t stop it.

  She bunched the clean shirt in her hands and hid her face in it. “Sorry,” she said, muffled.

  Owen closed the space between them in two long strides. His fingers circled her wrists gently and he pulled her hands down.

  He really, really wanted to kiss her.

  It must have been obvious, because Chloe’s cheeks pinkened further. She didn’t look away. Her breathing picked up.

  Slowly, Owen extracted the shirt from her hands. “Thanks,” he said, and turned away.

  He dragged it over his head. When he faced her again, she looked vaguely annoyed.

  Then she broke into a big smile and said, “Suits you. Detective.”

  Owen ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, thanks.” He glanced down and did a double take at the giant marijuana leaf screen-printed over the chest. His nostrils flared. He pointed at the shirt with an accusatory forefinger. “I do not approve of this.”

  “It’s legal.”

  “I know the law. And I know that only morons glamorize drugs.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her smile vanished. “Good thing it’s my brother’s T-shirt and not mine—which is why you can fit in it, detective—or you just called your date a moron. Eat your sandwich.”

  The subtext was so clear he could almost see the words hanging in the charged air between them: and leave.

  “Your brother lives here?” he asked.

  “No. I’m just holding onto some of his stuff for him. Wait. His clothes. Clothes and things. As in his laptop, his books, things like that. Not drugs. He doesn’t do drugs. Anymore. He’s in rehab.” She kicked up her chin. “I suppose you have a problem with that, too?”

  “I’m all in favor of rehab. It’s the part that comes first—” he gestured at the shirt, “—that I’m less in favor of.”

  “He’s in there for opiates, not marijuana.” She sucked in a breath and pointed at him. “Not heroin or hardcore… He’s not a dealer or… It’s for pain pills!”

  Owen held up his hands. “Your brother’s business is his business.”

  “So stop judging his shirt.”

  “Okay.”

  Owen’s appetite had disappeared, burned away by the lust roaring through him, but he reached down, grabbed one of the sandwiches, and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “In a hurry?” Chloe asked, her sweet voice carrying a tart edge.

  Owen swallowed and took a moment to say, “Think I’d better get going,” before he ripped into the second sandwich.

  “No, must you? We’re getting along so great. Why would you want to cut the fun short?”

  His blood sparked at her sassy tone. Yeah, she’d had her fill of his lame ass by now. “You’re having a good time too, then?” he heard himself say, his tone matching hers for sarcasm. “It’s not just me?”

  “Of all the first dates I’ve had, this one definitely ranks up there.” She tapped her chin and pantomimed deep thought. She nodded. “Top three, in fact.”

  “That would be the top three best dates, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “Lucky me. I’m having more fun than you. This makes my top two.”

  Owen had had a grand total of two first dates.

  This was one of them.

  He wasn’t telling Chloe that.

  He snagged the empty plate. “Dishwasher?”

  She pointed. “Right there.”

  Owen strode over and stuck the plate in the dishwasher. “Mind if I have some water?”

  “Need to wash away the taste of the vegetarian cheese you ate?”

  “Vegetarian?”

  She ignored his snarl and gestured over his shoulder. “Glasses are in the cabinet.”

  Owen selected a glass at random and filled it at the faucet. Holding her gaze, he downed the cool water, then turned to load the glass into the dishwasher.

  “Didn’t spill a drop this time,” Chloe remarked.

  A fierce grin curled his lips. He’d straightened it out by the time he swung back to her. She stood in front of the table, arms crossed over her chest, one hip cocked.

  “I didn’t spill a drop last time,” he said. “You threw hot coffee at me.”

  “I didn’t throw it, you flung yourself at me and knocked my arm.”

  “You were tickling my neck.”

  “I didn’t touch your stupid neck.” She growled when he raised a brow. “My h
air might have brushed your neck when I leaned around you. If I’d known you were so freaking jumpy, I’d have announced myself before I entered the danger zone.”

  “I’m not jumpy. I am alert.”

  “You were asleep.”

  He crossed the room without meaning to, and found himself right before her.

  Chloe closed the charged distance between them, stepping into his space and slapping both hands on his chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric of the fucking ridiculous shirt as she lifted her chin to maintain eye contact.

  She opened her mouth to say something else, but Owen cut her off.

  “Chloe.” Bending down, he cupped her hot face between his palms, eyes searching hers. “I want to kiss you. That okay?”

  Her breath hitched. “Sure. Have at it. Before I get too excited, though, let me check. Is the kissing going to happen soon? Or are you going to maybe leave me waiting around for an hour or two first?”

  Owen gritted his teeth. “I apologized for being late. Even called the restaurant. Thought you were cool.” He moved his hands to her hips and tugged her against him.

  Chloe vibrated in his hold. “I am so cool, mister. I am so cool, I made you a sandwich. That’s how cool I am.”

  “Yeah. You were cool. Right up until you started with the jabs over something I already apologized for.”

  “Whaaaat?” Her voice went up an octave. “You want a jab? I’ll give you a jab. Here’s a jab.” She poked him in the chest, right over the stupid marijuana leaf.

  He nudged a knee between hers, winding an arm low at her back and subtly shifting over her. “And what kind of responsible adult woman has a dumb T-shirt like this?” he said.

  “It’s not mine. Told you that already. What kind of responsible adult man shows up for a date with ketchup stains on his shirt?”

  “It’s not ketchup.”

  “Besides your complete lack of effort in dressing for a date, you could have texted to say you were running late, okay? One text. I wasn’t even going to say anything, but you are pushing my buttons and—wait, what? Not ketchup? Oh, shit. Was it blood?” Her hands brushed and patted over his chest as if searching for a wound.

  “It was. A month ago.” Nosebleed, from getting smacked in the face by an irate hooker. “Now it’s a stain that won’t come out.” He leaned down until they were nose to nose. “I’m kissing you now.”