Текст книги "Tangled Bond"
Автор книги: Emma Hart
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Dates on Thursday are bad. And not because Thursday is tomorrow, but because it’s the day before freakin’ family dinner.
If I thought I could get away with it, I’d totally call Drake and rearrange, but I don’t even think a Friday night interrogation by my grandmother will pass as an excuse. Besides—I can’t put it off any longer.
Two weeks is kinda, sorta, really freakin’ ridiculous.
And it’s one date. That’s all I agreed to.
That’s the settlement I came to with myself last night after two margaritas too many and definitely one cupcake too many. One date isn’t that bad, really, right? Especially if the kissing happens.
Wait.
I didn’t agree to that with myself…
My eldest brother shakes his head at me across the table. “I think you need help.”
“What I need is to skip town,” I mutter, dipping my nacho into the sour cream and shoving it into my mouth.
“What made you agree to date my superior?”
So there’s a chance Trent still doesn’t know about my and Drake’s little romp in my kitchen. There’s an even higher chance that he never will. Because yuck.
“Temporary insanity?” By way of orgasm.
This is a thing.
He raises his eyebrow.
“Oh, come on. It could be worse, right? I could be going out with Giorgio Messina again.”
Instantly, Trent’s expression sours. “I find myself oddly thrilled about Drake over Giorgio.”
“Wow. What a blessing.” I snort, dipping another chip into some guac. “Look. I agreed. I’m going. Then I’m taking a vacation to Easter Island or somethin’.”
Trent shoves two sour-cream-and-salsa-covered chips into his mouth and considers this. “Huh,” he manages through a mouthful of food. “I don’t trust him.”
“You trust him to find a murderer but not take me on a date?”
“Big-brother logic.”
“Is ridiculous,” I add, grabbing the empty box and shoving it in the trash can next to me. I sigh and rest my elbows on the desk. Then I run my fingers through my hair. “This whole situation is ridiculous.”
“Agreed. You two can’t even say hello without fightin’. Hell, y’all fight and skip straight over hello. Your goodbye is, ‘Fuck off.’”
My lips twitch to the side. I’m almost ashamed to admit that he’s right.
“Which is why, as much as I don’t like it, going on a date makes sense.” Trent grins when my smile drops. “Nonna and Nonno, remember? Fought like cat and dog but loved the shit outta each other.”
“You tryna tell me I’m in love with Drake?”
“Dunno. Are ya?”
“Like I love stepping on your son’s Lego whenever I babysit.”
Trent laughs, redoing his tie before grabbing his coffee from the desk. “Thank God—I don’t have to worry that my boss will be my brother-in-law. That would be awkward.”
I roll my eyes as he leaves without saying goodbye. How the heck did he make the jump from first date to brother-in-law? I bet Nonna called him, too. I’m quite honestly torn between wanting her to know so she gets off my back about dating and wanting it to be a secret from her so she doesn’t set us a wedding date and book me an appointment at the nearest wedding boutique.
Alas, this is Holly Woods, and she probably knew when the date is right around the time I did. Hell, she probably knows exactly where the date is, and I don’t even know that.
Crap. I have no idea where he’s taking me. How the hell can I prepare for it if I don’t know where it is?
I reach for the phone and stop before I lift it up. If I call him, it’ll look like I’m thinking about it, but if I don’t, how do I know what to wear?
I pick the phone up. Put it back down. Pick it up. Put it down.
“What in the shit are you doin’?”
My eyes cut to the door where Bekah is tying her auburn hair into a ponytail and eying me with thinly veiled amusement. “Obviously, I’m trying to decide whether or not to make a call.”
“You don’t know what to wear tomorrow, do you?”
“Fuck off,” I reply, fighting my grin. Goddamn it. I hate that she knows me this well. “Yes. Okay.”
“You did this with Gio, too, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, tapping the corner of the phone against my mouth. “But at least I knew where we were going…”
“So call him and ask.” She shrugs. “I would.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d make me do it.”
Her grin is wide. “True. Want me to do it for you?”
“You will?”
“No. Do it yourself, you pussy,” she laughs.
I flip her the bird before she walks down the hall.
The phone rings and I scream, dropping it. I hear Bek’s laughter from her office two doors down and flip another bird through the walls as I reach down to grab the phone. “Hello?”
“Your two-o’clock is here,” Grecia says. Then she lowers her voice. “She looks antsy. Like she shouldn’t be here.”
Jolts of intrigued worry make their way down to my spine, making me sit bolt upright, and I stand up. “I’m coming down.” I hang up before she can respond, and after straightening my dress and wriggling my feet into my heels, I go downstairs.
The fact that this building is a converted, spacious, four-bedroom house and not a traditional office is something I’ve always loved. I can be downstairs in seconds, and the banister that follows it down is the very same one that was installed when it was built in the eighteen hundreds, restored to keep its beauty.
I brush some dust off the bottom and peek into the empty meeting room. Color charts from my meeting with Jason, the decorator I’ve hired to freshen up the building, are strewn across the table where I can’t be bothered to tidy them away. Instead, we’re simply conducting our now twice-weekly meetings on the top of them.
Changing the meetings from daily to twice weekly is my way of “cutting down” on cupcakes.
Spoiler: it isn’t working.
A stunning woman with short, blond hair cut into a stylish bob is sitting on the new, red sofa outside Grecia’s office. She’s flicking through a glossy magazine, completely immersed in the content between the pages, and I feel a little rude interrupting her, but hey.
“Natalie Owens?” I ask hesitantly, because although we went to school together, we run in totally different circles and always have.
She looks up, her dark-brown eyes framed by long, curled eyelashes that look like they brush the skin above her eyes. “Noelle!” She immediately deposits the magazine back on the stack on the glass coffee table in front of her and stands. The smile stretching across her face is bright, but the dull fear sparking in her eyes belies her apparently happiness.
I accept her embrace with a little—all right, all right, a lot—of awkwardness. “How are you?”
“I’ll be better if you can help me.” She glances away and clears her throat before offering me a nervous, high-pitched laugh.
I touch her upper arm and guide her toward the stairs. “Let’s talk.” I precede her up the staircase and open the door to let her pass into my office.
She sweeps past me gracefully, but I can almost smell her nerves.
Nerves aren’t a new thing in this job. Every client I see has an element of nervousness to them when they walk into my office. After all, they’re asking me to find out information they probably aren’t going to like hearing. It’s usually something simple like a rub to the back of the neck or picking at their fingernails.
Natalie far surpasses this. As soon as she sits down, her knee bounces and she attempts to still it by rubbing her hands down her thighs. As I close the door and lock it, she scrapes her hand through her hair. Then, as if it’s a knee-jerk reaction, she reaches up and smooths the locks back down into their pristine style.
I resist the urge to narrow my eyes, because then I’ll lose myself in cop mode and watch her for her lies instead of actually helping her.
Damn Marshall, murdering Lena and fully reawakening my cop instinct.
I slowly lower myself into my seat and look at Natalie. She’s nibbling on her bottom lip now, and honestly, I want to whisper for fear she’ll bolt if I speak too loud. Abusive, cheating boyfriend?
“What can I help you with, Natalie?”
She runs her tongue over her lips and takes a deep breath. Her fingers brush together, and she leans forward. “I think I’m being stalked,” she says quietly.
Oh, okay. That’s new.
I grab my pen and poise the tip above my notebook. “Elaborate.”
“My boyfriend and I broke up three weeks ago. He cheated on me, and I refused to accept his apology. He’s been begging me to take him back ever since.”
Inwardly, I wince. “That’s closer to harassment than stalking.”
“I know.” She exhales slowly but loudly. “But it’s not only the calls. There are…messages. Threatening ones. With my mail, texts, tucked under the wipers of my car. And sometimes, it just feels like I’m being watched, you know? I can’t go anywhere without feeling like I’m being followed.”
“Okay. And when did it start—the messages?”
“Four days after we broke up. I forced him to move out the same day I found out.”
Her jaw ticks, and she licks her lips again.
Lying.
I nod, ignoring the nudge from the back of my mind. “And the feeling of being followed?”
“The day after.”
“Okay.” I underline that on the notepad, set the pen down, and look at her. “Natalie, you do realize that this is probably a matter for the police, don’t you?”
“I have issues with figures in authority.” Bitterness flickers across her face, and her lip curls in disgust. “The hoops they have to jump through for simple things is ridiculous. The local PD are so busy making sure no one tries to kill the damn mayor that my gut feelings won’t be enough for them to go on.”
Wow. She really doesn’t like authority, huh? I knew someone like that in Dallas. Not for long, though, because he pulled a gun on my partner and ended up getting himself killed. He was more trigger-happy than I am…
Not that I’m saying she’ll get shot. Just that, you know. Respect and all that.
“You think the person following you is your ex-boyfriend?”
When she nods, I continue.
“So, what if I find out? Then what do you do with that information?”
“Then I take it to the police and they have to arrest him.”
I sigh and sit back in my chair. “They’ll do their own investigation and bring me in for questioning over it, even if my brothers make up half the detectives on the squad. That doesn’t exempt me from the procedures.” I hesitate as fear flickers across her delicate features. “But,” I add, “and I mean but, if you agree to report this to the police, I promise to take this and get to the bottom of it.”
Natalie inhales quickly, her eyes widening as my words hang in the air between us. She wets her lips then tugs on the bottom one with her teeth. Her dejected sigh is accompanied with slumped shoulders, and I have only one thought.
I would really, really love to play this chick at poker. The last time I saw someone this expressive was when I was sixteen and wanted to see why my brothers loved porn so much.
“What if they see?” she asks quietly, all bitterness completely removed and replaced with resignation.
“The stalker? Call from here and request that a plainclothes officer comes to you in an unmarked car if you’re that worried.” I open my drawer and pull a new contract out. “Here’s my basic contract. My flat-rate fee is on there as well as a breakdown of my process and what I need you to get for me. I’ll have one personalized for you drawn up once I’ve seen a copy of the police report. Take your time with this.” I slide it across the table.
She shakes her head. “I’ll have it to you tomorrow. With the report,” she replies.
“I’m out of the office tomorrow, but I’ll get to it first thing on Friday morning.” I glance at the clock. “Without being rude, I have another appointment in five minutes.” I offer her a smile and stand.
“Of course.” Natalie folds the contract and tucks it into her purse before getting up and joining me at the door. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”
“Sure don’t. Head down the hall and you’ll see it. It has a sign on the door.” I shake her hand then close the door as she disappears into the bathroom.
My phone rings before I can process that meeting, and I dart across my office to grab it.
“Noelle Bond?”
“Your next appointment is here,” Grecia says. “He’s cute,” she adds in a hushed voice.
I fight my laugh. Great—that’s what I want to do. Hire a cute tech whiz so her boyfriend, who happens to be an ex–FBI investigator, can see her little doe eyes whenever he walks past.
“Bring him up in five minutes, okay? I need to get ready.”
“Sure.” She hangs up.
I put the receiver down and pause. What’s one minute out of five to make a phone call? I grab my cell instead of the office phone and bring up my call log. Then I scroll to Drake’s name and hit call.
“Detective Nash,” he answers, his voice gravelly but distracted.
“I have a question.”
“Better than a dead body.”
I laugh. “Shut up. Okay, so this date thing tomorrow.”
“Date,” he says. “Just date, Noelle. No date thing.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “For this date, what am I supposed to wear? Where are we going?”
There’s a small crackle on the line, and I swear it’s him smiling.
“Not sayin’. But wear clothes. Course, if you wanted to wear lingerie and high heels, I can rearrange my plans.”
“Um, I’m thinkin’ I’ll stick to the clothes. But that doesn’t help, Drake. Do I wear jeans? A dress? Shorts? Boots? Heels? Flip-flops?”
“Sweet fuck, cupcake. I think you just gave me a brain aneurism.” He chuckles. “Wear whatever you want. Preferably something that shows your leg and a hint of panties when you bend over.”
“Will I be bending over?”
Another chuckle. “If you ask me nicely.”
I bite the inside of my lip although I can feel my cheeks heating at his insinuation. Or is it an offer? Knowing him, it’s an offer. Or a promise. Whatever.
All I know is that, right now, I have an image of me bending over the end of a bed while he fucks me from behind.
I clench my legs together and take a slow, deep breath.
“Noelle? You still there?” Smug—that’s what he sounds like.
“You’re a head-screwing little shit,” I half snap at him. “Nice try, Detective, but you won’t be seeing my panties. And to think, I just spent the equivalent of a mortgage on two new pairs.”
“You did what?”
“See you tomorrow.” I grin and hit end call as he yells out a “Wait!”
I’ve barely put the phone down when it rings again, his name flashing on screen. I let it ring to voicemail then put my phone on silent.
There are three rapid knocks at my door, and I call out, “Two seconds!” then scuffle in my papers to find Carlton’s résumé. Upon finding it beneath my electric bill and a ten-percent-off coupon for Victoria’s Secret, I grab it and shove the bill and coupon into my top drawer.
Whoops.
Carlton Hooper. Twenty-six years old. Two degrees that don’t make much sense to me, but Dean reassured me that they mean he’s more than qualified for the job. And apparently cute.
I shrug and get up yet again to go to the door. I’m gonna start leaving the damn thing open, I swear.
“Noelle, this is Carlton Hooper. Mr. Hooper, this is Noelle Bond, the owner of Bond P.I. She’ll be interviewing you today,” Grecia says, and, oh, she has a point about the cute thing.
Dirty-blond hair swept to the side—think a teenage Justin Bieber hairstyle but rougher and messier—piercing, dark-blue eyes, and enough muscles hidden under his white shirt that he’d send a whole college of girls into cardiac arrest.
Dear California, you’re missing a surfer, but Texas has decided to keep him. Thanks.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bond.” He holds his hand out, and I put mine into his. Nice, firm handshake.
God, what a male ought to have. Nice, firm handshake. Shouldn’t I be thinking that but about his ass?
Wait. Oh, never mind. Nothing wrong with eye candy in the office.
“Come on in and have a seat.” I motion to the tub chairs and glance at Grecia. “Thanks, Grecia. If Bek’s in her office, route all incoming calls to her and take your break.”
She smiles thankfully as Carlton walks past me and sits in one of the chairs. I close the door and stroll to my side of the desk, aware of his eyes on me. Shouldn’t have worn the tight dress today…
Then again, I wasn’t expecting to interview Mr. Cute here, was I? Ugh. I’m going to start asking for headshots for prospective employees.
Image is everything and all that.
I sit down and smile at him. “Tell me about yourself, to start.”
“Uh…” He glances at the résumé like he needs a script prompt. “I’m twenty-six, from Berkeley in California.”
Nailed it.
“I have two degrees, one in computer programming and one in graphic design, and…”
I nod as he continues his monologue. It’s refreshingly random and unscripted, so I think he thought I was going to dive straight into the questions. When it becomes clear he’s running out of steam and clearly on the verge of talking me through every pet he’s owned since age three, I stop him and start on the list of questions Grecia and Bekah helped me draw up.
I freaking hate interviewing. It’s the worst part about this job… Which is why I picked someone young when I hired Marshall.
I hope my next employee isn’t a murderous idiot.
I spend the next thirty minutes with Carlton, and by the time I’m asking him the last question about flexibility, I’m almost certain he’s not violently inclined. Well, I’m really hoping he isn’t, not only ’cause of the cute thing, but because he is absolutely perfect for this role.
“Thank you,” I say, standing and walking around my desk. “I’ll be in touch next week. Thanks for coming in, Carlton.”
“No, thank you for the chance, Ms. Bond. You obviously run a successful business, and it would be an honor to be part of your team.”
I open the door and smirk. “Flattery will get you nowhere, honey, but cupcakes might just.” I shake his hand again.
He laughs. “Bye, Ms. Bond.”
“Goodbye, Carlton.” I shake my head, smiling, and walk back to my desk, where I grab my phone. Turning it over, I see the voice message icon blinking in the corner of the screen, so I unlock it and dial the annoying robotic lady.
I don’t have to be a genius to know that it’s from Drake—and probably angry.
“I swear to God, Noelle Bond, you better not fuck with me tomorrow. ’Cause if you do, sweetheart, my restraint might snap and I will bend you over and fuck you into the middle of next week—and next time you tell me about your underwear then hang up and ignore me, I’m gonna get your ass over my knee and spank it until you come. Understood? Excellent. Ten o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
My jaw drops as the lady tells me that the message is over. He’s going to—where? What? Sweet baby Jesus on horseback! I cover my eyes with my hand and drop the phone. My breathing is more than a little erratic right now, but hell if I know if it’s because I’m angry or excited by that prospect.
Because, hell, I kinda wanna call him right now and do the panty thing to see if he will keep his threat.
Then again, I know he will… And Spanx aren’t made for spanking. Ironically.
So, instead of baiting him further, I text him a simple, I’d like to see you try, and put my phone in my purse.
Oh—wait.
Never mind. I totally baited him.
I’m so in trouble tomorrow.
B ring your gun.
That was the text message I woke up to this morning. Actually, it was the one I woke up to at one a.m. while my phone was buzzing like a vibrator on high power under my pillow. Well, I say I woke up to it. What actually happened was a very unladylike word combined with “waffle” as I threw my phone into my pile of dirty laundry by my bedroom door.
Yeah. I’m not proud of the very rare c-word escape mission, but I’m not responsible for what I say or do when I’m woken up at one a.m. while dreaming about Gigi’s. Really, Drake should have known better.
You never, ever wake a sleeping woman. Not even for sex. If we want sleepy sex, we initiate it. The last time my ex tried to have sleepy sex with me, I elbowed him on reflex and the whole Dallas PD thought he’d been hit in the face with a tree.
Again: not responsible.
I’m not shocked he texted me at that time of the morning—but, while I’m thinking of it, what was he doing texting me at that time? Was he awake? Working? Did he wake up randomly with a thought that he needed to tell me that? Why was he thinking about me at one in the morning? One. In. The. Morning.
Holy shit. I sound like a fucking thirteen-year-old hypothesizing about the cute boy who glanced at her in the middle of math. Does he like me? Was he really looking at me? OHMYGOD what if he was?
I need to seriously screw my head on tight and clamp up my vagina or this date is a bust—mostly because Drake Nash will own me entirely.
Damn, being a woman is so freakin’ hard. I’d bet anything he isn’t sitting at home right now, feeling like he wants to throw up all the elephants line-dancing in his stomach. Neither is he worrying about his fucking underwear in case his dress blows up and shows it. You know, for all the wind right now, but no one wants a Marilyn moment.
Because really, why did I wake up at five a.m. to read that message? That wasn’t even the first time I’d woken up. Like the ten millionth, and I haven’t even slept since.
Hell. Drake Nash is ruining me. Worse? I’m pretty sure I like it.
I need psychiatric help if, only weeks ago, I hated the man and, now, I’m all in a twizzle about a date with him. A date I’m only going on so my grandmother stops getting all up in my business.
Sure, Noelle. You tell yourself that.
Ugh. I’m a fucking moron.
But my gun. Why on Earth would the man I shot in the foot tell me to bring a gun to our first date? Perhaps he’s the crazy one. Perhaps he and the rest of the world are stuck in a never-ending ball of insanity and I’m the normal one.
Yeah. Definitely shouldn’t have added that sugar to my cereal earlier.
I twist the bangle at my wrist. Around and around and around and around until it pretty much spins by itself.
God, where is he?
Why am I doing this to myself? I am a strong, independent, kickass woman. I’ve been in situations where my life was absolutely at risk. I’ve held the fates of others’ in the palms of my hands, and I’ve stared straight down the barrel of a gun. But can I go on a date with someone without wanting to throw up everywhere? Can. I. Hell.
The knocks at my door are loud and confident. Can knocks even be confident? Or is it intimidating? Like a big boom-boom-boom that rattles windows and doors and sofa cushions and oh my God this is so ridiculous.
Someone take a frying pan to my face. Seriously. For real. Right now.
If I call my brothers, maybe one of them will shoot me and put me out of this misery. Hell, I’d take being knocked out right now.
Hello? Someone? Anyone?
The last time I felt this nauseated, I was waiting for my period after I’d lost my virginity.
Crap.
I nibble on my thumbnail, and hell, I need to shove this ridiculous nervousness the heck down, because it’s not like it’s a blind date Nonna set up. It’s not like I don’t know Drake. I know him better than I possibly should.
And maybe that’s the problem.
I know how dangerous this man could be to my heart. The most fiercely guarded part of me—not because she knows pain, but because she fears it. And if anyone, anyone, could inflict real pain on her, it’d be Drake.
Two more knocks sound at the door, and I stand up, feeling my own butt up to make sure my dress isn’t caught in my panties. Not that there’s much panty for them to be caught in. I mean, they’re definitely in the porn-star area of the panty chart.
I grab the door handle and open it. Or try to. Apparently, I didn’t think to unlock the door at any point this morning, so all the door does is nudge until it bangs against the frame, where the lock is still sticking into the frame.
Fuck my life in all the positions of the Kama Sutra.
I twist the key, and when the door clicks with the unlocking motion, I pull it open.
And set off my alarm.
It screeches through the house. My scream is short but loud as the high-pitched sound assaults my ears, and I drop my keys as I turn toward the alarm system block right by the door. I see Drake’s laugh rather than hear it on account of the noise reverberating off the walls, and if that smile wasn’t so fucking hot, I’d wipe it off his face with my boot.
I key in the code and the alarm dies. The silence is strangely deafening compared to the awful alarm. And just like that, the awkwardness hangs between us. At least, it does for me. A lot for me. All for me, okay? All for me.
“All right, cupcake?” Drake’s grin is lopsided, and he’s leaning against the doorframe. His ice-blue eyes are oddly warm, glittering with the laughter I know he’s struggling to keep inside. And the navy-blue Dallas Cowboys T-shirt he’s wearing clings to every part of his upper body, from his shoulders to his waist to his biceps.
And oh man. He makes them look good.
“That isn’t a great start to this date. That damn nickname drives me insane.”
His grin straightens and grows. “I know, but you ain’t allowed to be mad at me today. Nice, remember?”
“That’s askin’ a real lot,” I mumble. “Wait there.”
I turn into the front room, and with a little more tremble in my hand than I’d like, I grab my gun and lift my dress to slip it into my thigh holster. I know I could put it in my purse, but I feel more comfortable having it about my person. Drake has his at his hip, after all, and he’s off duty today.
“Gun between your tits?” he asks as I grab my purse and throw my phone into it.
“Perhaps,” I reply, stepping outside to join him on the top step. I slam the door shut and shove the key into the hole despite the elephants still raising a circus in my belly. “I’ll never tell you my tricks, Detective.”
“Drake.” He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me into him. He breathes over my shoulder since my head is still down from locking the door, but his firm hold squeezes my heart tight. “We ain’t workin’, Noelle. First date equals first names.”
“You say ‘first date’ like you know there’ll be a second.”
His fingers twitch against my hip. He ghosts his lips across my pulse until they hover at the curve of my collarbone. “I do. And a third. And fourth. And fifth. We’ll have so many fuckin’ dates you’re gonna lose count.”
His confidence is like whoa sexy.
“We’ll see,” I whisper. “Let’s get the first out of the way, shall we?”
“If you insist,” he murmurs, grasping me and turning me toward his truck. “You brought your gun?”
“I’m insulted you have to ask.”
“Good.” He pulls the door of his truck open and sweeps his arm for me to climb in.
I raise my eyebrow at him, because isn’t he supposed to help me in?
“Noelle, if I helped you in, you’d castrate me.”
“So a ten percent chance it’s wrong?”
The quirk of his eyebrow mirrors mine. “I’m tempted to take my chances.”
“This is a date.” Drake sweeps his arm around my waist. His fingers brush against the side of my stomach, and flutters erupt in the pit of my tummy when he uses his other hand to help boost me up and into the cab.
My butt brushes the edge of the seat, but he expertly deposits me onto it, and instead of releasing me when I’m safely seated, he leans in. The grin stretching across his face is smooth and sexy.
“Plenty of places I can think of lifting you like that.”
“You already did,” I drawl dryly. “Like my kitchen table.”
He pulls back, roaring with laughter, and trails his fingertips across my lower back as he lets me go. Damn those frickin’ shivers that cascade across my skin and through my pussy.
“Oh, babe,” he says, still laughing, paused at my door. “It’s gonna be a long fuckin’ day.”
“No shit,” I mutter, grabbing my seat belt as he shoves the door shut.
A really, really long day.
“Can you tell me where we’re goin’ yet?”
“Nope.” He smacks his lips together as he says it, starting the engine.
“Please.”
“No.”
“Pleeeeease.”
“Noelle,” he says with a sigh, but his lips are twitching. “Have I ever let you down?”
I open my mouth only for no sounds to come out. Well, no. He hasn’t. In fact, he’s always done more than what’s been expected of him. I shake my head.
“Then trust me.” He flicks his fingers against my thigh. He glances at me, his eyes piercing, and the secret they hold bugs the hell outta me.
Patience is a virtue. Obviously one that wasn’t bestowed upon me. Ever.
“Fine.” I mutter it and fold my arms like a petulant child.
He laughs—again. I’m pretty sure that, whenever Drake Nash writes his to-do list, he writes Fuck with Noelle at the top in big, black, capital letters. And adds a fucking smiley face after it, too.
“Nice weather,” he comments, still smiling from his laughter.
“If you like your weather hot and humid.”
“We live in Texas. What other kind of weather is there?”
“Storms…”
“Which are still hot and humid.”
“Then I like my hot-and-humid weather with a dash of lightning and a sprinkling of rain.” I click my tongue. “And asking about the weather, really? What are you, British?”
“It’s a conversation starter.”
“No. What’s your favorite movie? Or beer? Or animal? Or cupcake? Those are conversation starters. The weather is that awkward conversation you have when you’re forced to use the counter in the bank because the ATM is out of order.”
His eyes flick my way. “You go to the counter?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I hate people. I go to another ATM.”
“You hate people but work as a private investigator?”
I shift in the seat so I’m facing him. “My job is the reason I hate people. Do you know how many cheating spouses we found last month? Twenty-three. Twenty-three!”
“Okay, okay. Let’s talk about your acceptable conversation starters instead. What’s your favorite movie?”
“What’s yours?” I shoot back, grinning.
“Goldfinger.”
I want to say that my heart doesn’t stutter, but it does. Totally. Like a great, big freaking cough, actually. Possibly a full-blown choking fit.
How is my favorite movie his favorite movie?
“Noelle? Favorite movie.”
“You stole my answer,” I huff. “So I’m going with Ten Things I Hate About You.”
He turns off the highway, and his rich laugh fills the truck. “Because I didn’t see that coming.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Detective. My list for you is way longer than ten.”
He pulls up in a parking lot and rests his arm across the top of the steering wheel, turning to me. “I’m not sure how I’d cope if you actually liked several things about me.”
Oh, I do. Your eyes. Your arms. Your butt. Your cock.
