Chapter 11: The Kitchen Counter

Maggie made the evening easy, and I could have kissed her for it.

She talked about her shift and a man who'd swallowed a Lego, and she made Erin laugh twice.

She did not ask about the kiss.

She looked at both of us.

At ten o'clock she stood up and put on her jacket.

"I have a five a.m. start," she said. "Lock the door behind me, Warner."

She said it in the voice of a sister who had stopped being fooled.

The door clicked shut.

The condo went quiet.

Erin stacked the plates and carried them to the sink, and I turned on the water and stood beside her.

I washed, and she dried.

Neither of us said a word for two plates.

"You saw it," she said at last. "You're not going to say anything."

"Not tonight."

"Then what do you want tonight?"

I put the plate in the rack.

I dried my hands on the towel and looked at her.

"Section two," I said. "Is Dean in the kitchen?"

She stared at me.

Then she set the dish towel on the counter, very carefully, and laughed once, low and short.

"Stancliffe."

"Is he?"

"No."

"Then you're breaking your own rules."

"Then stop me," she said, "if you can."

She was already moving.

She grabbed the front of my shirt, and I lifted her onto the counter.

The sugar bowl went over, and neither of us looked.

Her mouth was hungry and sharp, and she tasted like wine.

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