But at the right moment (wrong moment?) the screenwriter called, offered to come take Jim for dinner, and Jim said yes, and that was how he was going to spend his forty-fifth birthday.
“Holy shit,” he murmured as Terry gathered up his belongings and stood up to leave.
“Are you sure you won't come to dinner?” His partner clearly didn't believe the “going out with someone” story.
“I told you I have plans.” Jim rearranged his desk and contemplated dusting his phone. He checked the clock and willed Terry out the door as quickly as possible.
“Real plans or fake plans?”
“Real plans.” And hand to God, like the screenwriter had it all planned, Jim's cell phone buzzed at the same moment that Fredericks from second shift walked over and announced Jim had a visitor.
“They are real plans!” Terry said, looking smug and surprised at once.
“Go home. Please,” Jim said a little desperately, answering his cell phone with a twist of his chair—like if he didn't look at Terry, he couldn't hear him.
Of course all he heard was Terry's briefcase thumping back on the desk and his partner settling in.
God.
“Jim Shea,” Jim barked, and the pause on the other end told him it was, indeed, the screenwriter.
“Uh, Griffin Drake; I'm downstairs…”
“Right, I'll be down in a second.” Jim used his free hand to quickly shut down his computer and collect his belongings, his face heated with embarrassment as both Terry and Fredericks watched. “Just wait for me at the desk.”
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39
“Right.” The guy sounded a little nervous and surely regretting his trek to Seattle for dinner.
Jim promised himself he'd be on his best behavior all night if he could just get out of this building without an embarrassing scene.
He hung up and stood in one fast motion, grabbing his coat as he dodged Terry's amused look.
“Hey, I'll walk out with you,” he said, and Jim glared.
“You're shameless.”
“I'm
curious
.” Terry fell into step with him as they left the squad room.
“It's not a date. It's that screenwriter. We're just going to talk about the movie.”
“On your birthday.”
“He doesn't know that.” Jim hit the Lobby button.
“So he just happened to call today, and you said yes because you actually had no real plans for your birthday.” Terry shook his head. “Really, Jim, we have to do something about your social life.”
“I don't want a social life.” The doors slid open and Jim tensed, glancing around for Griffin Drake—who was at the desk and looking exactly like a guy regretting making plans.
“Mr. Drake?” he called, striding away from Terry with a terse “night.” He was sure he'd get the business tomorrow, but for now he just wanted to whisk this guy away from here.
“Detective Shea,” Griffin Drake said, extending his hand warily. “I hope I'm not too early.”
“No, no, perfect timing; let's go. I know a restaurant not too far from here,” Jim rambled, ushering Mr. Drake toward the door.
“Night, Jim!” Terry called cheerfully as they headed for the door, just nearing their escape when he called out an additional “happy birthday!” 40
Tere Michaels
Jim winced. Busted.
They hit the cool night air, and Griffin turned to Jim, surprise on his face.
“It's your birthday? You should have told me, I would have never imposed myself—”
Jim cut him off, pulling his keys out of his pocket and hitting the button; his truck answered with a confirming
beep
as they got closer.
“Listen, I'll be straight with you. I didn't have any plans. You can go ahead and put that into your movie—workaholic detective does not have plans on his birthday,” he said, opening the passenger-side door. He let his eyes linger on the younger man's face—and felt the unfortunate sympathy scalding. “That's a good character, right?”
“It's a cliché—I'm trying to get away from those,” Griffin said, smiling brightly. “And technically, you have plans on your birthday. We're having dinner.”
“Business…”
“Dude, I'm from Hollywood—I know how to combine business and pleasure perfectly.”
Jim tried to pretend his blush was because of a sudden fever and not the feeling he was being charmed.
* * * * *
“Here?”
“Pull up to the curb. Valet's waiting for you.”
“Valet?”
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Griffin looked at him under the dim lamp of the truck's overhead light.
Jim could see the intelligence brewing in those dark eyes, and the furrow of his brow was easy to read. Jim was busted; this guy was a writer and that meant research, and that meant he knew Jim Shea had an excellent relationship with what fork to use at a restaurant like this one.
“We're probably not dressed for a place like this…” He made one last attempt, and Griffin smirked.
“Good thing you wear a suit to work and I'm about to flash a black American Express,” he said drily, opening the door.
Jim clearly had lost both the first and second rounds of this evening.
Inside was dark and quiet, murmured conversation, and the clinking of glasses as waiters dodged around narrow tables, their all-black outfits making them seem like ghosts haunting the place, with platters of delicious-smelling food. The model-pretty girl at the front grabbed two menus and led them into the back, far from the narrow tables and into an intimate booth.
Jim tried not to physically react. Was this a date? This wasn't a date. Was this guy gay? Yeah, he was pretty sure the guy was gay, and he was gay, but this wasn't a date. Right? This couldn't be a date.
“Raul is your server this evening; he'll be right over,” she said smoothly as Griffin slid into the booth and waited in the middle for Jim to move.
Aware he was a split second away from appearing a spectacle, Jim sat down.
“Thank you,” Griffin said, all charm and floppy hair. He opened the menu, then looked up to see Jim hadn't moved. He tapped the cover with two fingers.
“Order anything. I'll expense it. This is a business dinner, after all.” There was something about the way he said it, something that poked Jim in the stomach and made him fidget.
“And it's your birthday.”
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Tere Michaels
“The waiters here don't sing, right? Or do a burning pile of ice cream with sparklers?” Jim resisted the urge to pull at his collar.
“I highly doubt it. But if you want me to find a place…”
“
No
.” Jim picked up his menu and squinted at the fancy script of the menu, desperately searching for the word “steak.” They sat in silence until Raul materialized at their table, hands clasped behind his back.
Before Jim could get anything out, Griffin ordered a bottle of expensive wine with their dinner—steak, but in French—and for starters, two beers.
Jim's jaw dropped a little.
Raul evaporated.
“Was that forward?” Griffin said suddenly, leaning forward. Jim could see the tiny tic under his left eye. “That was forward, wasn't it? I'm a little nervous.”
“Why?”
“It isn't like me to be so…bold.”
“Bold?”
“Have you ever noticed you talk predominantly in glares and one-word sentences?”
“I—sometimes.” Jim tried to remember when his guard had fallen away completely and he was left sweating in the dark. Or maybe the tiny disc of a candle in the center of the table was producing way too much heat. “This whole movie thing is weird, okay? Having dinner with someone is weird too,” he admitted reluctantly, drumming his fingers on the table.
“That's…”
“Pathetic?”
Griffin shrugged. “I spend many a night eating takeout with a laptop. My main social life is acting as an escort to my best friend at movie premieres, Love & Loyalty
43
which sounds glamorous but really boils down to standing around and not getting enough to eat.”
Jim raised one eyebrow. “Is this a contest?” Griffin smirked, leaning his elbows on the table. “When's the last time you went grocery shopping…”
Jim opened his mouth.
“And bought more than just enough to get you through dinner and breakfast.”
Jim's mouth snapped shut.
Griffin laughed.
By the time the beers arrived, Jim had ratcheted down from sweating and stressed to a near enjoyment of Griffin Drake.
And admitted to himself he wouldn't mind entirely if this turned into a date.
44
Tere Michaels
Chapter Seven
Griffin Drake was in trouble. Not the kind of trouble where you call for help—the kind of trouble where you make a sign of the cross and jump right in.
Detective Jim Shea, all six feet four, steel-jawed, and eyes the color of blue that he couldn't think of something creative for… God, what kind of writer was he? Right, the kind who was sitting across from a subject, a part of a larger puzzle, all but drooling in his crème brûlée.
They weren't talking much; Detective Shea clearly didn't do this very often.
Griffin didn't either, but he was a natural talker, a social butterfly who dispelled every notion of the solitary, uncommunicative writer. He did like to drink, however, but he tried not to drink alone.
Which explained how the bottom of the wine bottle came up so soon.
“You want something else?” Griffin asked, well aware they hadn't touched the Kelly case or anything else beyond small talk about their respective cities and sports. He was already thinking of excuses to do this again—and to make this evening last a bit longer.
“Uh, I should probably have a pot of coffee.” Jim Shea wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and rested it back on his lap. On the one hand, it was a natural movement; on the other, Griffin wanted to massage the tension out of his shoulders. “And not drive afterward.” He looked regretfully at the empty wineglass and the almost empty second beer. “Not a smart move.”
“I'd offer to drive, but you'd just have to pull me over,” Griffin said, adding
and strip search me
in his head. “Let's have coffee, then…maybe take a walk?
Clear our heads.”
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Jim nodded, looking around for the waiter. Griffin got an excellent view of that chiseled profile and movie-star jaw. If this guy weren't so stiff, he'd make a wickedly hot leading man.
Raul materialized, and Jim ordered a pot of coffee (black, of course).
Griffin ran his hands through his hair—then discreetly rubbed off the sticky gel on the napkin in his lap.
Classy. He was a class act. And grateful this place was so damn dark.
“Thanks,” Jim said suddenly, like a burst of sound he had been working up to. “For this dinner and, uh, not talking work. It's a nicer night than I imagined it being.”
Griffin looked at the detective in surprise. He smiled, entirely pleased with himself.
“My pleasure. I planned on working you to death over cheap diner food, but this is much nicer,” he teased gently, leaning his elbows on the table.
“Seriously? I'm really glad I gave you a decent birthday dinner. You deserve it.” Jim's handsome face didn't reveal much agreement. He just looked embarrassed—like he wanted to disagree, but that would be rude.
“Come on, man, stop giving me that look. I used my writer Google fu, and frankly I'm stunned you didn't have a bunch of people throwing you a big party.”
Jim's eyes dropped.
“Well, thanks. That's nice of you to say,” Jim said stiffly. The coffee appeared before either of them could crawl under the table.
Griffin watched him pour his coffee, and his palms itched. The French wine, the night, the dark—it made him stupid ballsy.
“Why don't you believe that?”
“Huh?”
“Why don't you believe what I said? From what I can tell, you're well liked.
Respected. Successful. You're not hurting for money or looks.” He gnawed the 46
Tere Michaels
inside of his mouth when that last word slipped out. “I'm not sure why I should feel bad for complimenting you.”
Jim stirred his coffee aggressively. When he gestured with his spoon, tiny droplets of coffee flying across the table, Griffin reined in the urge to laugh.
“I don't like compliments.”
Griffin let go of the reins.
“What? That's just… What does that mean? If I say - hey, Jim, nice shoes, that's a problem?”
“I don't trust them.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. I just don't.”
“You must be fun at parties.”
“I don't go to parties.”
Griffin rolled his eyes. “No parties, no compliments. Suddenly I'm understanding the lack of dating.”
Jim's shoulders went up around his ears, and his eyes turned dark in the dim light. Griffin thought he might have to readjust himself under the table.
“Who said I don't date?”
“An educated guess.”
“Do
you
date?”
“Occasionally.” When Daisy made him.
Jim seemed stymied. He was clearly buying time by taking a sip of his coffee; Griffin enjoyed the tense silence.
Jim in control was hot. Jim slightly off-kilter was borderline illegal.
“Why don't you have a boyfriend?” Jim all but threw in an “aha” as punctuation.
“Don't want one,” Griffin said breezily.
“Ever?”
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“I want the right one.”