Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“Or maybe they all simply want independence again,” Otto says. “Besides, I’m afraid the Burrows situation is not dissimilar to the Dexter situation. Even if he is/was bent, Beau isn’t going to let you touch him. Torture him. Keep him against his will.”
“If she knows,” I say quietly.
“You’re a dick if you think you’d get away with that.” He’s right. And once again I’m damning my girl for being a former cop.
“Not that it matters because no one knows where the fucker is.” I clench my fists and push them into the worktop. Just give me The Bear. The thought of him disappearing without a trace fucking pains me. Justice. Vengeance. It might never be ours.
“Has anyone spoken to the girls?”
“You mean Pearl and Anya?” I ask, and he nods. “Rose and Beau have been with them. And Esther. It’s a gently does it situation.” We can’t go steaming in demanding every detail they can tell us. Well, we could, but Rose would have something to say about it. I would have guessed she’d be the one most deeply affected by Monday’s events. Turns out she’s found fuel in the situation. It’s Danny who has struggled.
“Let me know.” Otto snaps the lid of his laptop closed and gets up. “I’m going for a workout.”
Workout. Just the word makes my muscles hurt again, and I stretch my arms high, relishing the pull. “Where’s Danny?”
“His office. I’m passing by so will let him know about the buyer of the boatyard.”
“Don’t kill each other, will you?” I return to my coffee, mulling things over. I didn’t think the plot could thicken more, but here I am chewing it over like a piece of fat that refuses to break down.
I pick up my phone and look down at the screen. At the email I received this morning—the one I was expecting but not prepared for. Not prepared at all, which means Beau definitely won’t be.
“Morning.”
I quickly clear the screen and turn on my stool, finding a sweaty Beau behind me. “You were up early,” I say, following her path to the fridge, pouting, my eyes fixed to her firm, peachy arse.
“I didn’t think you’d be game for a workout.” She takes some orange juice and drinks straight out of the carton, leaning back on the countertop. She has a long-sleeved running top on that covers her scar.
I get up and wander casually over, and she pulls the carton away from her mouth a fraction, swallowing, eyes on me. Yesterday I was good for nothing except moaning and hurting. The day off was welcome. Beau seemed present, only marginally distracted. I’d like to put that solely down to her father’s funeral tomorrow and the delivery the next day. Unfortunately, I can’t. Burrows is missing and Beau’s had her suspicions piqued by him, Cartwright, and now Detective Collins. The chances of them all fucking off isn’t likely. So is the chance of Beau letting it go. Letting go and accepting her father really was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What a shitter this is. I need her focused. Focused on me, focused on what she desperately wants. Which leads me back to my day off yesterday. It felt totally wasted not being able to spend it buried in Beau.
But I’m feeling a lot better today. Still a little sore, but I’m not feeling quite as debilitated as I did. “Not that kind of workout,” I say quietly, reaching her, standing toe to toe but keeping my hands to myself as I look down at her.
Go on. Shine for me. Do it.
Blinding white sparkles pop in the depths of her dark eyes, and my heart pops with love. I take the carton from her limp hand and put it on the counter behind her, and then dip and sink my face into her neck, breathing out long and slowly when she wraps her arms around my shoulders and hugs me. Bliss. I lift her from the ground and squeeze her to my body, wanting her as close as I can get her, and she reciprocates, humming her happiness. The signs are good, and I’m quickly hatching a plan to get her back in bed and make up for lost time. But first . . .
“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” I ask, grabbing under her thighs and placing her on the counter.
“How are your muscles?”
Translated, she doesn’t want to talk about her father’s funeral. Okay. “How are you feeling about the delivery?”
She smiles as she watches her fingertip draw a line across my bottom lip. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure I can manage towing a line of jet skis from point A to point B and play a dumb female should the Coast Guard stop us.”
“Play?”
She gasps, punching my bicep, and I hiss. I hate that she’s way more at ease with this than I am, but that’s just Beau. And I am me—totally besotted and maybe a little protective—so I need to be at ease too. “I think I need another massage.”