Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Curious head tilt. “What do you call it?”
“Notes. Boring old notes. And that’s what this case is going to be. Boring, fast, open and shut. Dude was spying on a bunch of girls and got caught. Dad lost his temper. Physical altercations end in death a lot more often than you’d think. Either someone loses the fight and wants payback. Or one of them can’t let it go. That’s what happened here.”
“But you were hired by Lisa Stanley? Oscar’s sister?”
“Technically, yes, though I’m doing her boyfriend a favor.”
“Did you speak to her? Didn’t she tell you about the issues with the peephole theory?”
My head falls back on a gusty sigh. “You’re one of those amateur sleuths aren’t you? You’ve watched a couple of sensationalized documentaries on Netflix and now you think you’re an honorary member of law enforcement.”
“Podcasts are more my thing, actually—”
I send a groan toward the clouds.
“—but that’s not relevant. I’ve always liked to leave things neat and tidy. For instance, there is a loose thread on your shirt and I am dying to trim it off.” She wiggles her fingers at it and I come very close to stepping forward to give her access to the thread, just to get her touching me. “There is no reason for two peepholes if filming the guests was the goal. Only one would be necessary. Someone had to have spied with their two eyes at one time. And Oscar Stanley could never have fit into that crawl space.”
“Maybe he drilled the holes first, then realized he’d miscalculated his ability to fit.” Chewing on her lip, she says nothing. “There isn’t always a rhyme or reason to a person’s behavior. And a lot of time, people just make mistakes. Sort of like me taking this job.” I make a shooing motion with my hand. Seriously, I need her to go back to her cookie-cutter vacation house across the street because she’s fucking with my peace of mind. I’m starting to notice things about her. A little mole beneath her navel. The way she sucks in a breath before she starts speaking. Her apple orchard scent. “Run on home. I’ve got this covered. Like I said, I’m going to wrap this up quickly.”
After a moment, she nods and begins to back away.
And it’s like she’s pulling my stomach along with her.
The odd sense of loss doesn’t make any sense. Ignore it.
“Okay,” she murmurs, adjusting her bikini strap. “Well, when you need the guest book, I have it in my luggage.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m half turned when I realize what she said. “Wait a second. You took the guest book from this house?”
She keeps walking, that sexy butt ticking side to side. “Let me know if you need it.”
“You can’t just take evidence from a crime scene.”
“What was that?” She cups a hand around her ear. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the ripping of caution tape.”
“Don’t be a smartass,” I growl. “I’m a professional.”
Stopping at the bottom of her porch stairs, she cocks a hip. “Neither one of us is qualified to collect evidence because we’re not police officers. Lisa said that you’re a bounty hunter, correct? And I’m a second grade teacher.”
A second grade teacher.
I was mostly right. That’s why she’s the tallest at her job.
She must know what I’m thinking, because she gives me a grudging smile.
Before I can stop myself, I smile back.
I smile back.
It drops faster than a bowling ball. “Give me the guest book, half pint.”
She’s jogging up the stairs now, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. “Only if you keep me informed of any developments,” she calls over her shoulder.
Time to face facts. I am a big, nasty motherfucker and this freckle-faced teacher couldn’t be less scared of me if she tried. “Not a chance in hell,” I shout back.
She gives me a pinky wave and shuts the door.
The absence of her is like a cloud passing over the sun and the fact that I notice her being gone so profoundly does not sit well. I’ve known her for ten minutes. She’s deliberately withholding something that might make my job easier. And most importantly, she’s not my type. She’s not even in the stratosphere of my type. Every once in a while, I take home an age-appropriate woman, usually a divorcee like me, who shares my disdain for romance, true love, happily ever after. Disney sells that shit to females from age zero and men have to cope with those expectations our entire lives. Nope. Not me. One look at that woman and it’s easy to see her expectations are on the fucking moon. Bring her flowers? Not enough. I’d probably have to plant her a garden and waltz in it with her beneath the stars. She’s the marrying type—I can guarantee that based on the fact that she’s vacationing in Cape Cod and not the Jersey Shore or Miami. She’s not a one-night roll in the hay and that’s what I like.