The Spark

Chapter Two- When it Rains

"Coffee?" Weston asked me, and I blinked away any thoughts of the detective and myself anywhere but in our respective seats.

"Please," I breathed. "I've been dying for caffeine all night." I watched as Weston filled my cup from the old pitcher that had been placed on our table, and smiled when he pushed the mug towards me. I thanked him and blew on the beverage for a moment before taking a long drink.

"No creamer or sugar?" Weston wondered, and I shook my head.

"Waste of time," I explained. "Plus, coffee tastes great on its own. The only sweet coffee product I drink is Kahlua."

"Mmm, and are you more of a Kahlua and milk, or a White Russian kind of girl?"

If you only knew... Well you wouldn't be flirting with me, that's for sure.

"I'll give you one guess." I took a bite of my breakfast platter and sighed. When everything blew over, I'd have to bring Lyov here one day.

"I'm gonna go with the latter," he smirked, and I shot him a wink. "I don't know why I even asked."

"I don't know either," I sang. "Kahlua and milk is a breakfast beverage."

"Not a fan of Bloody Mary's?"

"I guess I never really grew into liking tomatoes," I shrugged. I was making fast progress on my meal, but I stopped chewing immediately when Weston spoke again.

"Well," he began, his gaze locking onto mine, "I'll have to remember that in case I ever catch you in the morning." Our knees brushed under the table, and a jolt of feeling passed through me. I could tell Weston felt it too by the way his hand tightened on his fork, but neither of us moved to end the contact.

I watched him through my bangs as I took another drink of coffee, until his phone buzzed, distracting us both.

"Looks like the traffic cam footage checks out with your story," Weston announced, and I smiled.

"Why, didn't you believe me?" I teased, and Weston pocketed his phone.

"Astonishingly, yes," he admitted. "As unlikely as your story sounded, I never doubted its authenticity."

"And it wasn't because you saw me half naked?" Or that I sort of eye-fucked you when you took your shirt off? Whoops?

Weston's eyes turned dangerous as he flicked his gaze down my body and then back to my face. "No. It wasn't. Though I can't say it wouldn't have helped."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. I've been on the force for almost a decade. I can see through just about any flimsy story."

"When did you start?" I wondered, more curious about his age than anything. He had that tough look to him that could have meant he was twenty-five or thirty-two. The chiseled, but shaved jaw didn't help my assessment, though the light shadows under his eyes and the amount of scars I'd seen on his torso earlier pointed more towards the second.

"I graduated from the academy when I was nineteen," he explained. So, about twenty-nine. Still in my preferred age range. "Worked up to my detective title when I was twenty-six."

"Impressive," I remarked, admittedly still a tad distracted by my own thoughts of him. "It's usually a much longer wait, yes?"

"It is," he agreed. "Normally takes ten or fifteen years in good graces with your superiors and waiting until someone dies or retires. I got lucky. And I was just that damn good at my job." He winked a little and I rolled my eyes.

"Usually when your job is your life, that's about the only thing you're good at," I jabbed, though my imagination told me otherwise.

"If you're issuing a challenge," he started, leaning forward a little, "I'd be happy to prove otherwise."