Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
So no chummy pictures. No fucking way.
The trolley began moving once again, and there was light chatter on the vehicle while Pat rehydrated with a bottle of water. After a couple of minutes, the trolley stopped once again, this time so he could point out some vintage fire trucks. Pat then began speaking about some of the boats. She was listening, but how could she focus when a warm, massive, calloused hand lightly grazed against her own as it rested on her thigh. He didn’t intertwine their fingers, but she felt his touch. No doubt it was intentional.
She kept her eyes trained on Pat as her anger built. This felt like a date and yet, it wasn’t supposed to be one.
She was attracted to a man who may have conceivably slaughtered at least one person—more than likely, many. She’d heard of these things happening on occasion with police officers who were doing long investigations. Some felt a magnetic attraction for the prisoners or suspects. They got too close to the case. She never understood fully how such a thing could occur, though, until now. And it damn sure wasn’t supposed to happen to her.
I’ve been doing so well. I’m still doing well. Nothing has happened. I’m sticking to the script…
She’d stayed up all night after speaking with Ethan, and ruled out the third suspect completely by that morning. A Mr. Lincoln Torres. When she stopped by his house, he was so bent over and weak due to a nerve disease, there was no way he’d be capable of pulling off such a criminal act. The older guy liked to hang out at that beach, and had been seen speaking to several of the young men, flirting with them. Some remarked he was creepy and always tossing money around, but there was no way a guy like him would have been able to cover his tracks well and quickly get out of sight.
Regardless, Ethan and Nikolai were definitely on the radar, and yet, a small part of her wished and prayed now that neither was the killer… especially not Nikolai. She kept wrestling within herself while poor Pat was pouring his heart out to the crowd in a silly song. She barely heard a lyric he sang.
I want this case solved. I owe it to Ava. I should never have agreed to go out with him. This inexplicable attraction was building and gnawing at her. She’d seen gorgeous men before, her ex-husband included. There was just something about Nikolai… The way he moved. Smelled. Spoke. His deep voice had a comforting touch to it, like a southern cowboy’s, and yet, he held tight to his New England dialect. Many folks from Maine sounded as if they were from Massachusetts, too, just like her, but it was mixed with a bit of New Hampshire as well. Bostonians dropped and changed their “r” sounds to “ah”. His pronunciation of those same words were similar, but a touch softer. And she loved it.
She slipped her hand away from his and clasped her fingers without making eye contact. She couldn’t control her attraction to him, but she could control accepting his advances and falling into her emotions. She could stop allowing them to lead her.
She could feel him looking at her right then, but refused to meet his gaze. Her heart began to race when he leaned towards her, sensing him somehow staring inside her very soul. Then he finally turned away, and she exhaled…
CHAPTER SEVEN
One thing about women was, regardless of their age or race, they were all overthinkers. Porsche Lee was no exception.
They were seated at a table in the main dining room of DiMillo’s on the Water, a floating restaurant with an excellent view of the Atlantic Ocean, and awesome menu offerings of freshly caught seafood and Italian fare.
“Get whatever ya like,” he offered as they took their menus. “I’m going to get a beer first. Would you like something to drink?”
She looked up from her menu and nodded. “I’ll just have iced tea.”
They then gave their orders—a couple of wedge salads which they both asked to be served with their other meals: crispy fried oysters, an entree order of lobster mac and cheese, and fried shrimp. Their drinks arrived but she remained unnervingly quiet.
“Since you’re not talking, let me get right to it.” He cracked his fingers and took a gulp of his beer. “I can tell you’re uncomfortable.”
She simply glared at him while sipping on her tea.
“You’re trying to figure me out. You also didn’t expect me to ask you out yesterday. You’re here to do a job. You’re helpin’ the police.”
“Yup. I’m here to do a job.” Her lips pinched as they wrapped around the rim of the glass.
“They’re grasping at straws and don’t know what the hell is goin’ on.” He snatched a piece of bread from the basket and tossed it in his mouth.