Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Lifting my hand, I crook my finger in the universal sign for “come here,” and her eyes narrow.
“I don’t think she likes that very much,” Tucker says as I watch her turn back to her date and say something, before she gets up and sets her drink on the low glass table in front of them. As she makes it across the room, I see the dark jeans she’s wearing are molded to her hips, and the legs flare out at the bottom, giving a glimpse of the sexy-as-fuck heels she has on with every step she takes in our direction.
“What are you guys doing here? Is everyone okay?”
“You need to come home with us,” I tell her softly.
“Did something happen?”
“Nothing happened,” I assure her, feeling guilty when I see the edge of worry fill her eyes.
“What?” She frowns, looking between the three of us. “Then why do I need to leave with you?”
“Because you and I need to talk,” I reply quietly.
“About what?” she asks, taking a step back, looking and sounding panicked. As my gaze roams over her face, I realize I should have spent the drive over here coming up with a fucking plan. Or waited, like a sane person, to talk to her tomorrow. Though there’s no way I would have been able to go through the night not knowing what she was doing. Wondering if she liked her date enough to possibly go home with him.
That thought pisses me off.
“Go tell your date goodnight, Em.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh shit,” Tucker says not-so-under his breath.
“Why are you out with him?” I bite out, glancing at her date, who is watching us.
Her eyes narrow on me. “Because he asked me?”
“And I’m asking you to come home with me.”
“Why?”
Because you being out with another man makes me want to commit murder.
“Please,” I grit out.
Her eyes slide closed, and her chest expands with a deep breath, then without a word, she turns on her heels and walks back across the room.
I don’t know what I expect. Or, I do, so I’m surprised when she leans down to the man who is still seated and says something to him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. His eyes move to us, and he nods once, then stands. My hands fist at my sides again when he leans down to kiss her cheek, and he nods once more when she says something else to him.
When she’s done speaking, she bends down and picks up her coat, putting it on, then grabs her purse that was resting on the couch. Once she has it in hand, he says something that makes her smile a little, then with a jerky nod, she turns and walks back toward us with her expression blank.
Taking her elbow, I lead her through the bar, and when we step outside, she stops when we start walking toward Clay’s car.
“My car is here.”
“All right, I’ll ride with you.”
Without a word, Tucker and Clay take off for Clay’s car, and we walk to hers that is parked in a lot down the street. When she takes her keys out of her bag, I carefully extract them from her hand and walk her to the passenger door, opening it. The look she gives me would cut a lesser man low, but she doesn’t say a word. She gets into the car, and I slam the door shut.
The silence as we drive to the building is deafening and heavy, unlike all the other times the quiet has settled between us. She doesn’t ask what we need to talk about again, which is a good thing, because I don’t know how to start the conversation we need to have.
By the time we arrive, Tucker and Clay have already parked and are nowhere in sight, so I lead her inside and take her up to my apartment.
“Do you want a drink?” I take off my coat while she removes hers.
“Do I need a drink for this conversation?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I walk to the kitchen and get a bottle of red from the cupboard. While I open it, she watches with her arms crossed over her chest, her body language screaming she’s in protective mode. I hand her a full glass, then pull down my bottle of Scotch and pour two fingers. Taking my tumbler with me, I walk into the living room and turn on the fireplace.
“Come sit down, Em,” I say, having a seat, and she looks at the space next to me on the couch before meeting my gaze once more.
“This is all very intense, Miles.”
“We’re just going to talk.”
“About what?”
“You and me.”
“What does that mean?” Her expression is completely blank, and if it weren’t for the fact that it’s my job to recognize the subtle shifts in mannerisms when I interrogate people, I would miss the way her fingers have suddenly gotten tighter around her wine glass, the breath she doesn’t release completely, and her glance at the door.