Page 29 of Hush

Tom steered them both to the Mexican restaurant they went to before. Mike grabbed a table in the corner, a tiny high top with two chairs practically side by side with a view of the bar and a wall for Mike to back himself into.

When Tom sat next to him, they were so close he could practically feel Mike’s warmth through his suit pants, the heat of his skin just beneath his button-down. Mike’s wrists rested on the edge of the table, his cuffs peeking through the dark sleeves of his suit as he flicked through the drinks list. Just the sight of his skin was enough to make Tom’s pulse quicken.

“What’s your poison, Judge B?”

Where had that nickname come from? If only Mike would call him Tom. He fantasized about it sometimes, Mike hovering over him in bed, whispering his name oh-so-sweetly. He had no frame of reference for it, no idea what his name would sound like on Mike’s lips.

“I’m a tequila guy.” Tom snagged the menu from Mike and flipped to the margarita section. “They keep tricking up margaritas. Coconut, pomegranate, cranberry, mango…”

“You’re a traditionalist?”

“I’ll try anything once.” He held Mike’s gaze for a moment too long. His eyes flicked back to the safety of the plastic menu, darting over words that swam under the dim lights of the bar. “Haven’t had a coconut margarita yet,” he murmured. “I’ll do that.”Please, make it a double. Could he flash his eyebrows twice as some sort of code, some bartenders’ Morse code that he needed Dutch courage, and stat? “What’s your drink of choice?”

The waitress walked up, perky and cute and young, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her. She wore a low-cut top and itty-bitty shorts, and she eyed Mike up and down. Tom tried to hide his smile.Wrong tree, miss. But I know how you feel.

“I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks.” Mike winked at the waitress, and she gave him a coy smirk over her shoulder as she walked away. Mike sent a private grin to Tom, an inside joke in the curve of his dimple.

“So you survived the patent case.”

“Barely. Testimony wrapped up today. I get to rule on the patent tomorrow at three.”

“Will it be a coin flip again?”

Tom laughed. “No, this time I followed it a bit more closely. The tech was easier to understand. Software, instead of chemistry and nuclear physics.”

“You still looked like you wanted to run out of your courtroom.” Mike leaned into him, jostled his shoulder gently.

God, it took everything in him not to melt against Mike’s side, not lean in and just let go, rest his head on Mike’s shoulder and then turn into his neck, his collar, nibble on his skin—

He laughed, breathless, and curled half over himself, bracing his forearms on the edge of the table. “Yeah, I did, at times.”Get a hold of yourself!He reached for the center spinner, a pyramid of plastic and shiny advertisements. “How’s your week been?”

“Quiet. Full of paperwork. Intel analyses and reports.” Mike rolled his neck, as if shaking off the office. “For once, the prisons are quiet. No threats coming down the wire for any of my judges.”

“Your judges? We’re yours now?”

“Of course.”

God, Mike’s smile could melt his bones. Swallowing, Tom looked down at the plastic pyramid he held. He flipped it in his hands, over and over, not looking at the sides.

“What’s up next for you? Do you have a trial next week?” Mike kept talking, oblivious to the tempest in Tom’s soul.

“I do. A felony murder rule trial—”

“Who is your JSI?” Mike frowned. Every murder trial was considered high-risk and had a JSI providing personal security during the trial.

“Villegas.”

Mike’s frown turned into a scowl.

“You and Villegas not on the same page?”

“We’re not even in the same zip code.” Mike gave him a long glare. “Villegas and I are as different as two marshals can be. He wants to do his time and get out of the courts. He just wants to bang down doors and arrest the bad guys. He’s a cowboy.”

Villegas was definitely not as thorough as Mike was. Tom already knew that. Mike was perfect, professional, polished. Villegas treated most court cases like they were exercises in boredom he had to endure, and when a defendant got a little rowdy, it was like a switch got flipped and Villegas was suddenly the defendant’s worst nightmare, a prison warden and a drill sergeant combined. “Are you guys randomly assigned to cases?”

“Winters assigns them, usually. Unless we request something specific. I should have gotten that case, though. You’re my judge.”

There was no reason for him to feel like a flower opening to the sun, but Mike’s words had him blooming. A little ball of spring, right in his chest.