Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
I really need to stop that shit and focus on the job.
Not that there’s much to focus on.
The afternoon passes normally enough. I recognize every face that passes, pushing a stroller or lugging a reusable tote bag.
There’s Ophelia Faircross, stepping out for lunch on the arm of our captain, Grant. I almost never see the captain smile, but he’s got this slow, content grin shining out of his thick beard as he offers her his arm.
Past the closing door of the Sanderson family shop, Nobody’s Bees-ness, I can just glimpse her sister Rosalind behind the counter. She’s looking much healthier after her stint in rehab to shake the bad habits Aleksander Arrendell encouraged.
Was Xavier the family supplier, too? I really wonder.
Fuck, everyone in this town looks happy.
I watch as Grant and Ophelia stroll down the sidewalk, completely absorbed in each other on their way to the little deli on the corner.
What must that feel like?
To be so content.
To have your life sorted, feeling like you’re free to build something rather than dedicating everything you have to tearing shit down.
I don’t like these thoughts.
For me, they’re not normal.
On any other day, I’d have stolen one of Lucas Graves’ cheesy paperbacks and skimmed a few chapters to pass the time. Now, I don’t even pick up the one sitting on my dash.
I’m so fucking restless it hurts. Every minute crawls by like a drunken snail.
What’s Talia’s lead?
And why do I care less about that than seeing her again and making sure she’s truly safe?
My mind spins in circles as the minutes and hours tick by.
At 4:19 p.m., I step out of my cruiser, leaving it parked on the curb—it’ll be fine there—and lock up before I make my way down the street toward the coffee shop.
I’m expecting to arrive early and wait for her.
When I get there, she’s already there waiting for me.
Looking pretty as a picture in a pair of close-fit jeans, cute heeled sandals, and a loose, breezy blouse that threatens to be translucent but flirts enough to suggest pure sin.
Her hair ripples in red waves tumbling everywhere, fire and copper all burnt together into shiny gloss, bringing out the pink in her cheeks, her lips, her skin.
She’s so goddamned beautiful I forget to breathe.
Knowing Xavier Arrendell saw her that way makes me taste blood.
I shove it away.
I don’t fucking own her.
It’s not my business how she dresses or who looks at her. It’s only my business that she’s not distressed.
I just don’t like it.
Don’t like the idea that the slimiest motherfucker in town probably made her feel disgusting, all because she looks damnably sexy today.
I’m glad she doesn’t look traumatized—and as I make my way up the street, she turns her head, sees me, and brightens. She raises her hand in a shy wave, smiling. I answer her with a brief nod as I draw into earshot.
“Miss Grey.”
“Talia. I’ll even settle for that ‘shortcake’ business,” she says playfully. My lips twitch. I’ll admit I said it just so she’d give me crap. “Sorry I’m early. I finished the sketches I was doing at the shop and I was bored.”
“Nothing to apologize for.” I ease past her and catch the door of the café, pulling it open. “After you.”
She flashes me a grateful smile and slips inside.
We’re quick to the counter. I order my usual black coffee, no sugar, Irish crème and a sugary mocha slushy thing for her.
I offer to buy her something to eat from the pastry case, but she declines, shaking her head and wrapping her soft pink mouth provocatively around the bright green straw, her lips pursed happily as she takes a sip.
“I ate at home,” she says. “Grandpa was baking and I can never turn down his muffins. He loves to try out new recipes from the bakery next door.”
“Your grandfather likes to bake?” I ask as we make our way to a secluded corner booth. The café is mostly empty by now, just a few people with their laptops, and it’s easy to stake out a spot where we can talk privately.
We settle into the leather seats across from each other under the string lights above.
“I’m not sure if he likes it so much as he got used to it when he was stuck with me. Cooking in general, I mean,” she says wryly. “He just turned out to be pretty good at it. We mostly take turns, unless it’s crunch time on an important order, and then we live off takeout and frozen pizzas.”
“The life of the creative.” I lean back in my seat, loosening the neck of my uniform shirt and watching her. “You care about him more than anything, don’t you?”
She starts, then smiles and ducks her head. “Is it that obvious? He’s always been there for me. He taught me everything I know about the woodworking trade…”