Her Perfect Proposal. Lynne Marshall
Japanese for tiny and her grandmother still called her Chitcha to this very day. She liked how he repeated the name, Chitcha, as if memorizing the word.
His favorite pet turned out to be a stray cat named Smelly, whom he’d found while he walked home from school one day. The homeless cat was half-dead and hosting a dozen abscesses. According to Gunnar, that red tabby lived fifteen years with his family.
Knowing he was the kind of guy to rescue a stray cat made her go all gooey inside.
They played on, and she enjoyed getting to know a bit more about this man who, despite a couple of close calls, continued to act the gentleman—except for the high-five incident, which would really be unforgiveable if she hadn’t enjoyed it as much as he apparently had.
Good thing he’d ordered the coffee because the drinking had definitely caught up to her. The bar had taken on the appearance of golden-warm tones, fuzzy around the edges and a little distant, and Gunnar looked like the sexiest man on earth—probably was.
Something about Gunnar made her edgy, though, like he was the kind of guy a girl could fall really hard for. Most men his age would already be married if they wanted to be. Her journalistic intuition told her he wasn’t the committing kind. Nah, he was too charming and smooth around ladies, well, around this lady anyway, proving he’d had a lot of experience. Which would be par for the course in Lilly’s world, since none of her boyfriends ever had the least bit of interest in commitment.
Nope. This guy could be trouble.
The best way to deal with Gunnar would be professionally, journalist to cop. She had to break him down, and after this game she’d make her move. She’d invite him somewhere closer to her hotel for coffee and quiet conversation. This time, instead of relying on a pool hall and beer, she’d use more of her hard-earned journalistic prowess and throw in a few more naturally acquired wily ways to get him to open up.
Charm didn’t come second nature to her, like it did with him, but she could pull it off if she had to. For the sake of her story.
He won the game and since she was still feeling pretty darn good from her last beer, and was in close enough proximity, she decided to give him another high five. In order to do that, she had to move toward him. Shifting from where she stood to Gunnar felt the way slow-motion photography looked, with streaks of light trailing the object. Boy, she should have eaten more of the chips and salsa. She stopped, shook her head and regained her balance.
“Whoa, hold on there, Chitcha.” He steadied her with hands on her shoulders. “You okay?”
Amused, she chose to think he’d called her the nickname her grandmother had given her, not her dog’s name. “I think I’m a little tipsy.”
She moved gingerly toward him, and he drew her close, wrapping around her like a warm rugged blanket. “I better give you a ride home. Is that okay?”
She’d never felt such strength in her life. Solid. Like a rock.
“But you’ve been drinking, too.”
“Two beers,” he said. “Didn’t even finish the last one. I’m fine.”
She dared to glance into his eyes again, and could tell he was perfectly okay. The biggest question was did she trust herself enough to let him take her home without falling all over him? One more glance into those dreamy green eyes and she made up her mind.
“Okay.”
“I’ll get my motorcycle.”
* * *
She gulped as if he’d just suggested jumping off the bridge as he led her outside the bar.
The former warehouse covered in weathered wood with a rusted aluminum roof stood stark against the night sky and sat in the center of the crowded asphalt parking lot. The Columbia River rushed by behind the bar giving a calming effect after the noise from Olaf’s. Lilly’s car was a sporty red sedan and Gunnar’s motorcycle was two aisles down. He led her to the bike.
“I can call a cab,” she said, panic brewing in her dark eyes.
“I’m a safe rider. You’ll be fine.” He handed her his helmet.
Her decision to put it on seemed more about saving face.
Gunnar liked how Lilly threw her leg and spiky-booted foot over the pillion seat of his motorcycle. He twisted around and helped her fasten the helmet. She’d clearly never taken a ride on a bike before, so he decided to take the back route from the docks through residential streets. Whenever he leaned into turning a corner, her hands tightened around his middle, and it felt good. Beyond good. Going far slower than usual, never over thirty-five for her sake, they crossed the railroad tracks, a small houseboat cul-de-sac section of the harbor, and Fisherman’s Park with its distinct fishy smell, then rode past the town library, grammar school and finally drove down Main Street to the Heritage Hotel.
Regretting the end of the ride with Chitcha nearly strapped to his back, he parked in front.
“Thanks,” she said over his shoulder the moment he stopped.
He waited while she got off the back of the motorcycle, then shut off the engine and parked, leaning it on the kickstand.
“So, thanks for bringing me here.” Again with the thanks business. “Guess I’ll see you around.” She seemed nervous and flighty compared to earlier, and as she headed for the rotating door he pulled her back and pointed to the helmet she’d forgotten to take off.
“Oh. Sorry,” she said, flush-faced, removing it and handing it to him.
Her hair stuck out every which way, and it made her look even cuter. He didn’t want to humiliate her, so he held back his grin, only letting one side of his mouth hitch upward the tiniest bit. He tried his best to make eye contact, but hers darted around as if planning a major escape.
What had happened to the bravado lady at the bar, the one who he could have sworn almost kissed him after one particularly successful shot?
Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, he backed off. He may be knocked out by the feisty Asian beauty, but the last thing he’d ever do was push himself on her. Or any lady. Hell, if history repeated itself, women always returned to Gunnar. He’d wait for her to come to her senses and make the next move, even though he wasn’t supposed to be doing that anymore.
“Okay,” he said. “So I’ll see you around, I guess.”
“Sure thing.” Her expression turned all earnest and he braced for something awkward to happen, like an apology, but something much better than that came next.
Lilly went up on tiptoes, hands balanced on his shoulders, and bussed his cheek—his reward for being a gentleman. He thought he’d been kissed by a butterfly and liked the way tiny eyelash-type flutters marked the spot. It surprised him.
She must have picked up on that “something more” reflex she’d caused, because he stole a glance into her eyes and an open book of responses filled him in on the rest of the story. She was interested. Very interested.
So was he, and he was damn sure she could figure that out. For a few breathy moments they stayed staring under the light of the street lamp, trying to read each other. He could still detect her fresh and flowery perfume, and resisted taking a deep inhale.
Having spent the better part of the evening in Lilly’s company, he’d already understood she liked to take the lead with questions, pool and drinking. If he read her right, and he liked to think that being a policeman had taught him how to read people, she’d prefer to make the next move. So he waited, counting out a few more breaths while taking a little excursion around her intelligent and thoughtful eyes...and getting lost. Her creamy skin contrasted the dark, straight hair and meticulously shaped eyebrows. And those eyes...
She wrapped her hands around his neck and drew him close. Her fingers cool on his skin, and with a twinkling glint in her night-like eyes, she carefully touched her mouth to his and kissed him as if she meant it. Her small but