Pearce was running late. He’d called to let her know he was fine and he’d be home for dinner. It wasn’t unlike him to stop to help in a car wreck he passed on the way home or to break up a bar fight, but he usually dropped her a text to let her know what had happened. She suspected that tonight, Mitch Morelli had happened. Heat coursed through her and took up residence between her thighs. Damn, she hoped Pearce hurried home. She was practically drooling for him to take her to bed, though she hadn’t gotten all dolled up for him as she had the other day. After work, she’d changed into a pair of yoga pants and t-shirt, and thrown her hair up into a ratty ponytail. Maybe she should slip on a baby-doll nightie and light some vanilla candles instead. She’d put a frozen pan of lasagna into the oven and the scents of cheese and garlic filled the house. Not exactly an aphrodisiac. But we won’t need it. We have Mitch to light our fires now. She paced off toward the kitchen, where she uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
