Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
“You’d really feel that way if I got spooked and ran?” he inquires, doubt clouding his eyes.
“How could I not?” I turn my gaze out over the city lights. “I’m sitting in a beautiful romantic place, having one of the most honest conversations I’ve ever had in my life, with a man I respect because he is being honest with me about his feelings.”
Cage’s eyes swim with an emotion I can’t quite name. He swallows hard before nodding.
“This is a risk,” I continue. “I’m well aware of what the pitfalls are—and the potential rewards. I think I’m in a gambling mood.”
Cage laughs, tipping his head back in amusement because we had spent a few hours in Rivers Casino yesterday grumbling about how neither one of us really liked gambling.
“I’m willing to gamble, too,” he says. He puts his arm around me, then pulls me into him. “So, what’s on your agenda this week?”
“I have to spend two nights this week at one of the shelters.” I had previously told Cage I volunteered a few times a month at some of the various shelters I work with. It lets me check in on some of my clients—keeps me grounded and aware of just what these women and children go through to escape. It fulfills me.
“I’ll coordinate the evenings I need to work with your nights,” he replies. “Although I might need to work some other evenings. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“It’s a plan,” I murmur, but part of me can’t help but wonder if he’s just creating a plausible out with potential work obligations if he gets spooked in some way.
I certainly hope not, because I like this guy enough to know I’m going all in without any reservations.
CHAPTER 8
Cage
I knock on the apartment door, wondering what Jaime’s doing right now. It’s one of her shelter nights, and I used the opportunity to accept a dinner invitation from another woman.
But not just any woman.
When Anna opens the door, I hold up the six-pack of beer in one hand and a pink teddy bear in the other. She smiles, but my attention quickly moves from her over to the bassinet that sits right at the edge of where the living room and kitchen connect.
“There’s my girl,” I coo, eyes sparkling as I shove the beer at Anna and make a beeline toward her daughter, Avery.
Yes, Anna was pregnant when her husband, Jimmy, was killed. She went through a really rough time after, the prospect of being a single mom not the most daunting thing about the experience. The grief she suffered caused complications, and she had to remain on bed rest for the last part of her pregnancy.
It was after little Avery was born that Anna made the bold move to work at Jameson as a means to stay connected to the place her husband loved. She and I became fast friends, mainly through a bond we shared having both been former military. She was Army, but that doesn’t diminish my respect for her service to our country.
I quickly became enamored with Avery, who is just over four months now. It’s weird because I don’t have any experience with babies. For some reason, though, I’m a natural with Anna’s daughter. Maybe it’s because we—the men of Jameson—all feel a little bit like Avery’s daddies given Jimmy died in the line of duty.
Anna asked me to come by to look at a leaky dishwasher. I told her I would only if she’d cook for me. Which is sort of a joke, since Anna and I try to have dinner together at least once a week.
“Whatever you’re making smells amazing.” Without hesitation or the need to ask permission, as honorary uncle to the little niblet, I reach into the bassinet and lift Avery out. She settles easily into the crook of my arm, and I lean over her head to press a kiss there. “Goddamn… she smells amazing, too. Why do babies always smell so good?”
Anna snorts, moving to the oven to peek in at whatever the hell smells so delicious. She then transfers the beer to the fridge, retaining one for each of us.
Anna opens them, then sets mine on the counter. “She just had her bath. Of course she smells good. Why is it you’re never around when she poops her diaper? If you were, you’d realize babies don’t smell good all the time.”
I look down at Avery, and she stares solemnly back at me as if to say, “Don’t believe a word she says. I’m the sweetest-smelling baby, ever.”
Smiling, I croon, “Your mom is making stuff up, isn’t she? I bet your poop smells like lollipops and rainbows, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, Lord. Don’t be feeding her stuff like that,” Anna says on a groan.
“Not like she can understand me,” I retort.
“Yeah, but you’ll develop a habit of lying to her as she gets older, then I’ll spend a fortune in therapy trying to deprogram her from all the crap you’ll tell her.”