Brooke laughed.
Her mother continued:
“Is he married?”
“I don't know.”
“Find out.”
“This is not the takeaway.”
“It can be two takeaways.”
Brooke hung up on her.
Cole texted that evening.
You okay?
Brooke replied:
Real answer?
Preferably.
Angry. Embarrassed. Tired of strangers debating whether what happened to my own body actually happened.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
That sounds exhausting.
No advice.
No solution.
Good.
Brooke replied:
It is.
Then:
How was the ride?
Cole sent a photograph.
Rows of motorcycles outside Trinity Regional.
Children waving from windows.
A large donation check.
$184,000. Still counting.
Brooke smiled.
Not bad for a bunch of terrifying criminals.
We try.
Then:
Dinner?
Brooke stared.
Direct.
She appreciated that.
Charity logistics?
Absolutely not.
She laughed.
Friday.
Dinner happened in Fort Worth.
No biker bar.
No uniforms.
No courtroom.
Small Italian restaurant.
Cole wore a dark button-down shirt.
Brooke wore navy.
He stood when she approached.
Old-fashioned enough to amuse her.
They talked for three hours.
Cole had a daughter.
Emily.
She died at seventeen from leukemia.
That explained the ride.
He spoke about her without collapsing into tragedy.
Funny stories.
Her terrible music.
Her hatred of motorcycles until age fourteen, when she suddenly demanded he teach her to ride.
Brooke listened.
“Is that why you retired?”
“Partly.”
“She died during my twenty-fourth year.”
“I stayed two more.”
“Then realized every call reminded me I had spent too much of her childhood working.”
His eyes dropped.
“No fixing that.”
Brooke touched his hand.
Just briefly.
Consent can be communicated quietly too.
Cole looked toward their hands.
Then at her.
The attraction had been there from the parking lot.
Now it had room.
“You always this forward with retired cops?”
“Only ones who grab active cops by the collar.”
He laughed.
“I am never escaping that.”
“No.”
“Good.”
He turned his hand.
Their fingers touched.
Nothing more.
When he walked her to her car, he stopped at a respectful distance.
Brooke looked up.
Cole looked at her mouth.
Then eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question itself affected her more than she expected.
After Grant.
After a stranger deciding her clothing implied permission.
After days of people discussing what touch should mean.
Cole asked.
Simple.
Brooke smiled.
“Yes.”
The kiss was slow.
Warm.
Adult.
No performance.
His hand remained at her waist only after she moved closer.
Brooke felt the difference in every nerve.
When they separated, Cole’s forehead rested lightly against hers.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Real yes?”