“You’re wearing a suit.” Free stepped farther inside, his voice husky. “I’ve never seen you in a suit.”
“I have meetings today,” Hart grumbled. “I hate wearing this, trust me.”
Free smiled wolfishly. “Well, you shouldn’t hate it. You’ve got the shoulders for a suit.”
Hart flushed. “Thanks.”
Free didn’t come to him like he wanted him to, instead he went to the wall with the book shelves and surveyed more pictures of him throughout his many years on the force. On the credenza was a photo of him and his brothers on horseback on their family’s farm. Free picked up the frame.
“Are you the oldest?”
“No. Mike is the oldest, then me.” Hart stood, inconspicuously adjusting himself in his slacks. “The youngest is Joe.”
“He looks like a fun guy.” Free smiled.
“He is. He was here a few months ago with his girlfriend, visiting on my birthday. He asked me what I wanted for a gift. I told him I could use another desk chair for my home office because my last one was on its way out. And that little shithead brought me that.” Hart pointed at his chair. It was an exceptionally large, high-back executive chair with a black frame. That wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that the seat and back was made out of plush, royal blue velvet. He hated it and he loved it.
“That’s the nicest chair I’ve ever seen.” Free laughed, rubbing his hands over the button-tufted backing.
“Yeah, if you’re a mafia boss.” Hart rolled his eyes.
They were quiet for a moment while Free walked around. Hart wanted to kiss him again, but wasn’t sure how to ask, or if he should just go up and take it, or if he was being too needy. Free sure seemed in a lot of need earlier.
Free checked his watch. “You ready to go?”
“Sure. You wanna grab a late breakfast?” Hart tucked his wallet into his inside breast pocket, clipped his cell and badge on his hip, then removed his service weapon from his safe and secured it into his shoulder holster. When he hooked his shades on his shirt, he saw Free was staring.
It took a second for him to come to, then he blinked and asked, “What?”
Hart’s chest expanded. With newfound confidence he strolled over to Free and gathered him into his arms. Free’s breath hitched, then breathed warm gusts of air onto his neck. “I said. Do you wanna eat before we go to the office? I know a good diner with the best damn French toast just around the corner.”
Free moaned his yes, but he didn’t let go.
“So where’s the bighead, today? Isn’t that what you call him?” Hart’s usual waitress, Margery, asked, following her question with a loud guffaw. She was a robust woman, with shocking black hair that she kept cut in an asymmetrical bob. To finish off the style she always pinned a few tufts of hair back with a single imitation flower. Today’s was a pink gardenia.
“God’s at work already. I opted for nicer-looking company this morning.” Hart’s pulse pumped rapidly as he tested coming out to someone else. From the way Free flushed and smiled, it was obvious they’d had a lovely morning…perhaps followed up by an even lovelier night.
“He sure is cuter than the other one.” Margery said, without blinking an eye, and turned to face Free. “What’ll you have, honey?”
Hart unclenched his hands from beneath the table and brushed the dampness away with his paper napkin. Exhaling, he waited for Free to order his food.
“I’ll have the French toast platter as well, but instead of the hash browns, can I do the grits?” Free asked, handing her the tri-fold menu.
“That’s no problem. And, I’ll be back with refills in a sec.” She gathered the discarded sugar packets from their hot drinks and hurried off to input their orders.
Hart couldn’t help his grin.
“What?” Free asked. “What’s so funny?”
“What’s a British boy know about grits?” Hart gave him a teasing smile.
“My mom is black and Latina, remember. Oh, I know plenty about grits. I eat mine with lots of butter, salt and pepper.”
“That’s the Baltimore in you.” Hart winked.
Free’s laugh was beautiful. “I’ll take that. I love all the many parts of me. Not a lot of people can enjoy candied yams, buttermilk fried chicken, then eat tostones, right along with pork pies and Welsh cakes.”
Hart found he was enjoying himself. Laughing easily. “That is a pretty broad palette.”
“And you’re from Texas, right?” Free asked, taking a drink of his tea.
Hart nodded. “Yep. Lubbock. Nothing there but ranches, nosy people and the damn Buddy Holly Museum.”
Free laughed again.
Hart kept going. “Well, it was like that when I was ready to get the hell out of there. There’s communities where everyone knows your name and your business is never your own. But, I loved my family, and living on a ranch was great. I won’t lie about that.” Hart lifted one corner of his mouth. “My pop and stepmom had it running like a well-oiled rig. We have almost two thousand acres, and boy was it damn fun growing up there.”