ask later. Or maybe not. She wasn’t sure where this was going.
“Something smells good.” He nodded at the stove. “What is that?”
Her Southern manners kicked in, and she got two bowls down from a cabinet. “Chicken noodle soup.” She started ladling. “Sam had it for dinner.”
“Is he sick?” Ric pulled out drawers until he found the silverware.
“No, I just decided to make it.”
“Homemade soup. I didn’t know you cooked.”
“I love to cook.” She scooped some extra chicken chunks into his serving, then turned to put their bowls on the table and caught him staring at her breasts. His gaze met hers, and she felt one of those sparks again.
“Cooking’s like chemistry.” She ferried the bowls to the table. “Only more forgiving, not as precise. Plus, it’s relaxing. I cook when I’m nervous.”
“And organize spices.”
“That works, too.” She pulled two beers from the refrigerator and used the hem of her Duke University T-shirt to twist off the tops before plunking them on the table.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Bud Light drinker,” Ric said as they sat down.
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. You strike me as more the microbrew type.”
“In other words, a beer snob?”
He shrugged.
“You don’t know me very well.”
“That’s true.”
She put her spoon down. She was tired of dancing around the issue with him. The events of the past fewdays had drained all of her patience. “Why’d you stop calling me?”
She’d caught him in mid-spoonful and he took his time swallowing and putting his spoon down before answering.
“I don’t know.”
Bullshit. They’d been on the verge of starting something last summer. Or at least, she’d thought so. He’d met her for coffee at the lab a bunch of times. He’d dropped by her office and her apartment on several occasions. Mia had started to let her guard down. She’d even considered taking the plunge and sleeping with him.
Considered it? Hell, she’d been dying to. From the night they’d first met at El Patio, she’d been dreaming about sleeping with him. But he never even got around to asking her on a date. His interest had been purely professional. He’d recognized her from some DNA seminar she’d given and needed her help.
Throughout the case, he’d kept finding excuses to call her and seek her out, and she’d begun to think that the intense pull she felt was mutual.
And then, suddenly, nothing. Nada. His case wrapped up, and so did his interest in her.
She should have been relieved. A romance with Ric Santos was the last thing she needed. It would disrupt everything. The logical part of her knew it was for the best. But the nonlogical part of her felt hurt. Her pride was wounded, especially after she’d mulled it over and realized what had happened.
She suspected it was happening again now.
“And why are you here tonight?” she asked.
He leaned back in his chair but didn’t say anything.
She huffed out a breath and resumed eating. Then she pushed her bowl away. “I know why. It’s the Ashley Meyer case.”
His eyebrows snapped up.
“You want me to fast-track your labs for you, so you decided it’s time to start buttering me up again.”
“Buttering you up?” The side of his mouth twitched. He was laughing at her.
She stood up from the table and took her bowl to the sink. She turned and leaned back against the counter. He was watching her with those intense dark eyes. The amusement was gone now, but she couldn’t read his expression.
“Is that what you think?” he asked.
“You’re telling me you’re not here on business?”
He stood and walked over to her, soup bowl in hand. His gaze locked with hers as he reached around her to put the bowl on the counter.
“ Your business. Not the Meyer case.”
“You mean the shooting?” She felt a surge of alarm. She’d been so preoccupied with Sam she hadn’t thought about Frank Hannigan in hours. “What happened?”
He
“Something smells good.” He nodded at the stove. “What is that?”
Her Southern manners kicked in, and she got two bowls down from a cabinet. “Chicken noodle soup.” She started ladling. “Sam had it for dinner.”
“Is he sick?” Ric pulled out drawers until he found the silverware.
“No, I just decided to make it.”
“Homemade soup. I didn’t know you cooked.”
“I love to cook.” She scooped some extra chicken chunks into his serving, then turned to put their bowls on the table and caught him staring at her breasts. His gaze met hers, and she felt one of those sparks again.
“Cooking’s like chemistry.” She ferried the bowls to the table. “Only more forgiving, not as precise. Plus, it’s relaxing. I cook when I’m nervous.”
“And organize spices.”
“That works, too.” She pulled two beers from the refrigerator and used the hem of her Duke University T-shirt to twist off the tops before plunking them on the table.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Bud Light drinker,” Ric said as they sat down.
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. You strike me as more the microbrew type.”
“In other words, a beer snob?”
He shrugged.
“You don’t know me very well.”
“That’s true.”
She put her spoon down. She was tired of dancing around the issue with him. The events of the past fewdays had drained all of her patience. “Why’d you stop calling me?”
She’d caught him in mid-spoonful and he took his time swallowing and putting his spoon down before answering.
“I don’t know.”
Bullshit. They’d been on the verge of starting something last summer. Or at least, she’d thought so. He’d met her for coffee at the lab a bunch of times. He’d dropped by her office and her apartment on several occasions. Mia had started to let her guard down. She’d even considered taking the plunge and sleeping with him.
Considered it? Hell, she’d been dying to. From the night they’d first met at El Patio, she’d been dreaming about sleeping with him. But he never even got around to asking her on a date. His interest had been purely professional. He’d recognized her from some DNA seminar she’d given and needed her help.
Throughout the case, he’d kept finding excuses to call her and seek her out, and she’d begun to think that the intense pull she felt was mutual.
And then, suddenly, nothing. Nada. His case wrapped up, and so did his interest in her.
She should have been relieved. A romance with Ric Santos was the last thing she needed. It would disrupt everything. The logical part of her knew it was for the best. But the nonlogical part of her felt hurt. Her pride was wounded, especially after she’d mulled it over and realized what had happened.
She suspected it was happening again now.
“And why are you here tonight?” she asked.
He leaned back in his chair but didn’t say anything.
She huffed out a breath and resumed eating. Then she pushed her bowl away. “I know why. It’s the Ashley Meyer case.”
His eyebrows snapped up.
“You want me to fast-track your labs for you, so you decided it’s time to start buttering me up again.”
“Buttering you up?” The side of his mouth twitched. He was laughing at her.
She stood up from the table and took her bowl to the sink. She turned and leaned back against the counter. He was watching her with those intense dark eyes. The amusement was gone now, but she couldn’t read his expression.
“Is that what you think?” he asked.
“You’re telling me you’re not here on business?”
He stood and walked over to her, soup bowl in hand. His gaze locked with hers as he reached around her to put the bowl on the counter.
“ Your business. Not the Meyer case.”
“You mean the shooting?” She felt a surge of alarm. She’d been so preoccupied with Sam she hadn’t thought about Frank Hannigan in hours. “What happened?”
He
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