Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“If you’re worried,” I say, “I should stay with you again. We can swing by Tommy’s place and pick up a few things.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
When I hear the concealed hope in her voice, I have to believe there’s a connection here. It’s how her voice peaks at the end as if she thinks I will tell her, Yes, I do mind. It’s like she thinks I will tell her everything we’ve shared so far has been fake, but it’s been the most real thing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t feel free when I left prison, but I do with her. That’s saying something.
“I should be the one asking you that,” I reply. “Are you sure you don’t mind me staying in your house?”
“I feel safer with you there.” She stares down at her clasped hands as she admits this. “I know that probably means I’m more than a little crazy, but it’s the truth.”
“I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”
She glances at me, then returns to staring at her hands. “That’s just it. I shouldn’t know that. I should question every single part of this. I should think you’re running a scam or something like that, but I don’t. So that either means I’m very naïve or you’re not the person your charge would imply.”
Charge. She’s talking about the murder of her dad.
Kylie will call me later to let me know they made it to the lake house and that she’s safe. Can I tell Lucy the truth, then? Will she hate me for it? At a red light, I reach over and place my hand on hers, clasping them together.
“You’re so tense,” I say softly while touching. Any contact threatens to ignite the hunger in me.
“Well, a lot’s going on,” she murmurs, “and I’m pretty much completely in the dark.”
I can’t say anything worthwhile in response to that, so I keep driving.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lucy
“It’s nothing special,” I say, placing the plate down.
I’ve made cheese paninis with a side salad. Jamie leans forward and hunches over his food, his powerful shoulders bulging in his T-shirt. He’s dressed casually in shorts and a T-shirt, showing his rippled arms with veins pressing against his forearms. Every inch of him screams power.
We’re sitting at the back garden window in the rear of the kitchen. It’s wrong, how, well, not wrong this feels. He’s told me nothing, yet here I am, making him food like we live in domestic bliss.
“It’s delicious,” he says, hunching over even more.
I’m not sure I should say anything, but since we’ve been talking like we’re a couple—and acting like it—I risk it. “You don’t have to protect it, Jamie. Nobody’s going to steal it from you.”
Jamie laughs suddenly. It’s a release of acknowledgment, a grin spreading across his face. Despite the silver dust coating his powerful jaw, despite his silver hair, he sounds boyishly excited.
“You’re too good at reading me,” he says, leaning back.
“Was it bad in there? For that?”
He shakes his head. “Very few people tried to steal my food. It happened a few times in the beginning, but…”
He winces, looking out into the garden as the sun sets.
“You… dealt with them?” I offer.
“Exactly. I dealt with them. That’s a good way to put it. I don’t like speaking about those encounters. Most of them are in my novels, though.”
“I’d very much like to read them.”
Again, a charming boyishness touches him. He never stops being a forty-two-year-old rugged, handsome man. However, there’s a light in his eyes like he’s waited his entire incarceration to let it out. Some excitable part of him froze the day he went inside and thawed upon his release.
“I’ve got two right here.” He pats his pocket. “On a memory stick, I mean.”
“Whoa, really?” I lean forward. “Let me start the first one tonight. I remember that documentary, when you were talking about your work, how it was your escape when you were inside. I remember the passion in your voice and the spark in your eyes. I remember how…”
How much it made me want you.
I trail off, then stuff a big piece of panini in my mouth so I don’t risk more word vomit.
“You can read it,” he says, his perceptive blue eyes narrowed as if he’s just seen into my thoughts.
“Most writers would get defensive,” I say.
He shrugs. “The work isn’t finished, but this is something I can give you.”
Ah, I get it. He won’t—or can’t—give me answers, but he can let me peer into his soul in the form of his work.
“Anyway,” he says, “I’d be a fool to turn down an editor who wants to read my book.”
I beam, cheeks flushed. It’s so shocking how just a few morsels from him can have me glowing like this. It makes me feel a little silly, but it’s also just so freaking exhilarating for another person to have this effect on me. It’s almost like we were made for each other, and that’s why I experience such a sudden rush of joy.