Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
After he dealt with paying, as we sat waiting, I queried, “What did you mean?”
“About what?” he asked, his head turned away from me, apparently fascinated with the goings-on inside at closing time at Lenny’s.
I jogged his memory. “The part about me betting my ass I will. I’m good for it.”
Again, it’d bite into my monthly fun-money budget, which wasn’t an astronomical number to begin with, but since Donald Walken/Paul Nicholson was caught, and Elsie Fay was with her parents, I had free time. I’d just sign on for more dog walking and cat sitting and sort myself out.
“Though, I don’t have any cash on me. I’ll drop it at the office tomorrow,” I told him.
“Right,” he said.
“Really, I will,” I confirmed.
“I believe you.”
“You don’t seem like you believe me.”
“Well, I do.”
“Okay,” I mumbled.
We continued waiting.
He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers.
I watched as he did so.
His fingers were long. The ends squared. The back of his hand deliciously veined. And he had a tan, his skin a beautiful caramel color. But there looked to be some scars on his knuckles, like he’d been in a fight (or more than one).
I was thinking about those hands on my hips earlier. I was thinking about them in other ways too. I was one hundred percent drifting into my Blanche of the Golden Girls personality of the trio I embraced, so I decided for safety’s sake to start a conversation.
“So, you’re a PI.”
“Yup.”
He didn’t seem old enough, but what did I know? He was the first private investigator I’d ever met (along with Mace, of course).
“How long have you been doing that?”
“Awhile.”
Hmm.
Not chatty or forthcoming.
I tried a different tack. “So do you have a cool nickname like Mace? Do people call you Jack?”
“Cap.”
“Cap?”
He finally turned to look at me. “Yeah. Cap.”
“What’s that short for?”
“I haven’t decided about you yet,” he said instead of answering my question.
“Sorry?”
“I haven’t decided about you yet,” he repeated.
“I heard you, I just didn’t get you.”
“Part of that is not knowing if I want you to get me.”
I didn’t say anything to that because I still didn’t know what he was saying, though what I thought he was saying was annoying.
Therefore, I turned away and whispered to myself, “You’re hot, you know it, but get over yourself.”
I didn’t know if he heard me, I also didn’t care.
Fortunately, a few minutes later, my food was passed through.
He gave it to me and said, “You’re welcome for dinner.”
There it was.
He heard me.
“I’m paying you back,” I reminded him.
“Right,” he repeated his earlier, enigmatic sentiment.
Whatever.
I was paying him back. He’d see.
“Can I eat in your car?”
“Knock yourself out,” he replied as he drove to the exit.
I left the burger for later, chased the tots with the root beer, and was glad traffic was light so he could get me to my car, and with any luck, I could get home before my malt totally melted.
When he pulled alongside my car, for some insane reason, I turned to him and spoke.
“I didn’t know she was in there. I was just checking. Once I saw her in the window, I was going to go to the alley and call the police. But I saw him headed her way. I had to do something. I couldn’t know you and your partner were on the case and at my back.”
“She’s safe. With kidnapping her, he’s gonna get life. That waste of humanity will die in prison. You were right. All’s well that ends well.”
I felt weird because I was attracted to him, and as such, obviously, I didn’t want him to think I was a dork.
On the other hand, I had a feeling he knew I was attracted to him, and he hadn’t “decided” about me, and he was drop-dead gorgeous so he probably just had to crook a finger and any heterosexual woman would fall all over themselves to follow wherever he went, and he oh-so-totally knew that. So I thought he was likely a conceited jerk.
And outside of popping by his office, which he clearly didn’t spend much time in, say, unwrapping furniture, this was possibly going to be it, and he hadn’t asked for my number.
Of course, he was a PI. He could probably find my number, easy.
“Are you gonna get out or are you gonna sit there until that malt is milk?” he prompted.
Okay, still attracted to him, but he was a total jerk.
“I feel like I need to say something, like ‘thank you for pulling that nasty asshole off me and telling the cops I was on your team so I didn’t have uncomfortable ’splaining to do.’”
“You’re welcome,” he said shortly.
Right then. Decision made, at least on my part.
This was done.
“Have a good life,” I bid and lifted my malt. “I’ll mail the check to the office.”
“On me,” he replied.