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Authors: Susan Donovan
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and why Thomas felt obligated to take the dog home. Emma knew a massive load of guilt when she saw it.
And now Thomas was talking about his rugby team, and she used the excuse just to admire the loose curls of his short hair, the dark blond scruff along his jawline and up his cheeks, the smooth, golden skin below his eyes.
She'd grown accustomed to his appearance in the last three hours or so, enough that her blood wasn't beating against the back of her eyes like it did at first. Enough that she could breathe normally.
Biological imperatives aside, she was actually beginning to like the man—despite his best efforts. She liked that he was kind to a frightened little dog. She liked his rusty sense of humor.
And she was intrigued by how he tried to hide his smiles, as if joy was something he didn't want to succumb to in public.
She kept thinking about the other day in the exam room, when it felt like he was pulling her toward him and pushing her away at the same time. He was doing it again tonight. She could see him struggle with it when she held his gaze, and especially when she'd touched him.
No, Thomas Tobin wasn't a dullard, despite her first impression. But he was indecisive, conflicted—
hardly an ideal psychological profile for whatever kind of cop he might be.
Emma wondered if it was just women who made him nervous. That seemed unlikely—a man as good-looking as Thomas surely had to develop razor-sharp instincts around the opposite sex simply to survive.
Maybe something had happened recently that made him question those instincts.
Emma sat hack to ponder these questions and enjoy the view.
"I'm getting kind of old for the game, really. Rollo and I are the senior citizens of our team." Thomas shook his head. "It used to be I was sore for the first half of every Sunday—now it takes me until Wednesday to recover, just in time to show up for practice."
"So why do you still play?"
The corner of Thomas's mouth twitched and he rolled the empty coffee cup between his palms. "I spend a lot of hours behind a desk, so I crave the physicality of the sport. I love hitting and getting hit, how it makes me feel alive. The game takes everything out of me, makes everything else disappear. It always has."
"Have you been hurt a lot?"
His eyes sparkled. "I've been beaten to a pulp more times than a redheaded stepchild, so after nineteen years there's nothing left to lose—believe me. I plan to play until they drag me off the pitch in a body bag."
Emma felt her eyes go wide.
"See this?" Thomas pointed to the semicolon above his right eyebrow. "Stitches here twice—damaged some nerves—you might see me squint every once in a while. My nose has been broken twice. I've had knee surgery, dislocated shoulders, other things. See my hands?" He spread his fingers out on the tabletop.
"The only time I can lay them flat or make a tight fist is in the off season. The rest of the time they're too busted up."
Emma saw a few swollen knuckles and two digits that veered off in strange angles. He actually seemed proud of all this.
"It sounds like a lovely hobby."
He cocked a golden eyebrow in amusement. "Flower arranging is a hobby. Rugby is one of the top four reasons to live."
Emma didn't miss the gleam in his eye. "I'd love to hear about the other three," she said.
Thomas abruptly looked away, and Emma watched him struggle with his response just as the waitress came by to offer more coffee. They both declined.
"I should probably get going," Thomas said, reaching for the check.
"This was nice. Thank you." Emma tried to hide her disappointment that their get-together was over. "It's been a while since I've been out all night." She noticed that Thomas didn't respond to that. "I'm kind of a night owl anyway. Insomnia sometimes."
"Really?" Thomas raised his eyes as he counted out bills. "What do you do when you can't sleep?"
Emma chuckled, recalling her lurid behavior earlier that night. "I mostly sit on the front porch with
And now Thomas was talking about his rugby team, and she used the excuse just to admire the loose curls of his short hair, the dark blond scruff along his jawline and up his cheeks, the smooth, golden skin below his eyes.
She'd grown accustomed to his appearance in the last three hours or so, enough that her blood wasn't beating against the back of her eyes like it did at first. Enough that she could breathe normally.
Biological imperatives aside, she was actually beginning to like the man—despite his best efforts. She liked that he was kind to a frightened little dog. She liked his rusty sense of humor.
And she was intrigued by how he tried to hide his smiles, as if joy was something he didn't want to succumb to in public.
She kept thinking about the other day in the exam room, when it felt like he was pulling her toward him and pushing her away at the same time. He was doing it again tonight. She could see him struggle with it when she held his gaze, and especially when she'd touched him.
No, Thomas Tobin wasn't a dullard, despite her first impression. But he was indecisive, conflicted—
hardly an ideal psychological profile for whatever kind of cop he might be.
Emma wondered if it was just women who made him nervous. That seemed unlikely—a man as good-looking as Thomas surely had to develop razor-sharp instincts around the opposite sex simply to survive.
Maybe something had happened recently that made him question those instincts.
Emma sat hack to ponder these questions and enjoy the view.
"I'm getting kind of old for the game, really. Rollo and I are the senior citizens of our team." Thomas shook his head. "It used to be I was sore for the first half of every Sunday—now it takes me until Wednesday to recover, just in time to show up for practice."
"So why do you still play?"
The corner of Thomas's mouth twitched and he rolled the empty coffee cup between his palms. "I spend a lot of hours behind a desk, so I crave the physicality of the sport. I love hitting and getting hit, how it makes me feel alive. The game takes everything out of me, makes everything else disappear. It always has."
"Have you been hurt a lot?"
His eyes sparkled. "I've been beaten to a pulp more times than a redheaded stepchild, so after nineteen years there's nothing left to lose—believe me. I plan to play until they drag me off the pitch in a body bag."
Emma felt her eyes go wide.
"See this?" Thomas pointed to the semicolon above his right eyebrow. "Stitches here twice—damaged some nerves—you might see me squint every once in a while. My nose has been broken twice. I've had knee surgery, dislocated shoulders, other things. See my hands?" He spread his fingers out on the tabletop.
"The only time I can lay them flat or make a tight fist is in the off season. The rest of the time they're too busted up."
Emma saw a few swollen knuckles and two digits that veered off in strange angles. He actually seemed proud of all this.
"It sounds like a lovely hobby."
He cocked a golden eyebrow in amusement. "Flower arranging is a hobby. Rugby is one of the top four reasons to live."
Emma didn't miss the gleam in his eye. "I'd love to hear about the other three," she said.
Thomas abruptly looked away, and Emma watched him struggle with his response just as the waitress came by to offer more coffee. They both declined.
"I should probably get going," Thomas said, reaching for the check.
"This was nice. Thank you." Emma tried to hide her disappointment that their get-together was over. "It's been a while since I've been out all night." She noticed that Thomas didn't respond to that. "I'm kind of a night owl anyway. Insomnia sometimes."
"Really?" Thomas raised his eyes as he counted out bills. "What do you do when you can't sleep?"
Emma chuckled, recalling her lurid behavior earlier that night. "I mostly sit on the front porch with
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