Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I shrug. “I work too much.”
“So not ‘I work a lot,’ or ‘I have work commitments,’ you just go straight to ‘I work too much.’”
“I don’t like to mince words.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Electricity hums between us. I reach over and run my thumb along the top of her thigh.
We chat easily about Boston, her hometown. I’m a transplant, but I’ve been here long enough to know what’s up. She’s funny and witty, and I love the way she gestures when she talks.
We pull up to the restaurant and move up to valet parking.
“Miguel, I’m really not sure I’m dressed well enough for this.” A brisk wind kicks up, ruffling her hair, and for some weird reason it plasters itself to her lips. She squeals, laughing and snorting, as she tugs it back.
“Fucking lip gloss,” she mutters, untangling the mass of curls now doused with pink lip gloss.
“Fucking lip gloss.” I shake my head. “I hate when it does that.”
I love when she snorts with laughter. “Didn’t think you had a sense of humor.”
“You have to be able to laugh at things to pull off this grumpy.”
“Oh, really? Explain that to me.”
“People tune you out. They stop taking you seriously if you’re always giving off the same personality type. Gotta keep them on their toes.”
“So the grumpiness is a front?”
I smack her ass as she walks inside the restaurant. We’re the only ones at the entrance, but she still squeals.
“Absolutely not. I don’t have a lot of patience, but I’m working on it.” The door clicks shut, immediately drowning out the noise of the city. Candlelight and soft streams of classical music immediately set the mood, and when we round the corner to enter, she takes in a deep breath.
“Miguel,” she hisses, just as the waiter comes around.
“No one saw anything. Keep your panties on.” I lower my voice. “Apparently I can get a lot accomplished even when they are.”
Her jaw drops open in horror as the waiter takes two menus and escorts us to a private, candlelit table in the back.
I order Coquilles Saint Jacques, scallops in a rich cream and wine sauce, garnished with cheesy, buttered breadcrumbs, as well as mini onion galettes in flaky, buttery crust. We pair the appetizers with a chilled bottle of house chardonnay.
“Oh yum,” she whispers. “Magnifique!”
“Bon appetit.” I click my wine glass to hers.
After our appetizers, as we wait for our main courses she pulls up documentation on a tablet.
“This here,” she says, leaning over the table to show me, “is where you sign to give me permission to talk to the social worker.” I sign, using the tip of my finger. She hits send with a flourish.
“What have you found out so far?”
“Not much, other than who her mother is and where she was spotted last. But I need a baseline bit of information before I can really dig. The news I mentioned sharing earlier is that it appears… unless I’m mistaken, and I don’t think I am… that Toni’s mother was using her credit card as recently as last night.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“So she’s not super good at hiding.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Okay, so we can put a few things together. First, we know my brother knocked up a minor,” I say with a grimace. I still don’t love admitting that.
“Yes. And he whiffed on child support eventually and took off, and is now insisting he had nothing to do with the kid.”
“So how exactly do you even know she’s his?”
“His name’s on the birth certificate.”
“Doesn’t really mean anything.”
She nods. “True. But since you’re the one listed as next of kin, I doubt someone just made that up.”
“Well… you said Toni’s mother’s not much older than a teenager. She’s gone missing, and the next thing you know, Toni’s with me. Not everything adds up.”
“Nothing adds up in the very beginning of an investigation,” Samantha says. She frowns at the next plate brought to us. “You sure that’s edible?”
I can’t help but smile. It does look edible, like a decadent, carved sorbet or something, but it’s really a folded set of napkins for us to use to wash our hands before the next course.
“Go ahead,” I tell her. “Give it a go.”
She eyes me warily and taps one of them with her spoon. She squeals. “They smell like lemon! No fair!”
“Well, you didn’t actually eat them.”
“No, but I could have.”
“No way you’d have made it that far.”
She snickers.
I love how down-to-earth she is. I’ve spent way too long with way too many women who only wanted to be with me because of my status.
Not that I can even really claim Samantha wants to be with me. We have a very good reason to be here tonight, even if she did do her hair up all nice and put lip gloss on. Even if she does fit into my arms as if she’s made for me. Even if she did come on my desk.