Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“I see. What do you have?”
“Cereal.”
“But no milk.”
“Right. And boxes of macaroni and cheese but—”
“No milk.”
“Right.” Her eyes light. “But I do have lots of ice cream. This is my cheat place. I eat junk here.”
“Ice cream it is, then.”
She points to the bathroom. “But I’m going in there first. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m going to the car to get a T-shirt.”
“You have a T-shirt in your car?”
“I always keep an extra suit, jeans, and a T-shirt in the car.” I give her a wink. “You never know when someone might slice off all your buttons.” I pull her to me, kiss her, and head for the door as her laughter follows. I pause under the archway, and she does the same at the bathroom entrance.
She laughs again. “You should have seen your face when I pulled that knife, Nick. I mean, I get it. I should have known it would freak you out. I’m a stranger and all, but you looked like you’d just realized you’d gone home with Chucky’s Bride.” She turns earnest. “But don’t worry. I’m not as easily provoked as she is.” She laughs again and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me to scrub my jaw and run a hand through my hair. Holy fuck. She’s joking about being a killer, and the ways that could fuck with my mind right now, if I let it, are too many.
Exiting into the living room, I head down the hallway, and when I reach the foyer I stop dead in my tracks as darkness greets me. The light was on when we came into the house. Suspecting a bad bulb, and feeling rather protective of this woman I ironically came here to prove is a killer and who ironically just joked about being one, I walk to the switch and flip it on. Frowning, I decide it must be on a timer the security company has installed. I unlock the door, exit to the porch, and make my way to my car, where I open my trunk, and when I would grab my overnight bag, I am instead drawn to the identical one next to it. I unzip it and pull out the two death certificates on top, both with the same cause of death: heart attack. A month apart. Also in the bag is every detail of Faith’s life, and her family’s, heavily focused on her mother, none of it leading me to a clear answer. But I’ve looked in the eyes of more than one killer, and I’d bet my practice that Faith isn’t a killer, but not my life. Not quite yet. Not when I’m smart enough to know that I want this woman beyond reason. But if I’m right and she’s innocent, where that conclusion leads me, I don’t know. But the woman. She leads me right back in the door, to her.
I grab my overnight, open it, and pull on a white T-shirt, slipping it over my head, and then pull the zipper and settle the bag on my shoulder. Shutting the trunk, I waste no time crossing the lawn and reentering the house. I lock up and flip off the light, having no intention of going anywhere tonight but Faith’s bed. Traveling the hallway, I find Faith in the kitchen, standing at a pantry with her back to me, my lips curving at the sight of her bra hanging on the door handle. Her dress is laying on top of the trash can, and I make a mental note to find that dress and buy her another one, pretty damn certain good ol’ Macom is behind her dislike of other people’s money. Which sure doesn’t lend to the premise of Faith being involved in blackmail.
Walking to Faith’s bedroom, I’m presumptive enough to drop my bag inside the door, and then I return to the kitchen. She obviously hears me this time, glancing over her shoulder from the pantry she’s still studying. “I have cherry Pop-Tarts,” she says, facing me. “Cool Ranch Doritos, protein bars, and microwave popcorn.”
“The protein bars and popcorn don’t fit the cheating-while-you’re-here theme.”
“Sometimes I feel guilty after all the Doritos and ice cream and force myself to eat protein bars and popcorn.”
“Ah,” I say. “Makes sense.” And it makes her all the more adorable, and she doesn’t seem to know it. “Not to dismiss the delicacy of cherry Pop-Tarts, Doritos, protein bars, and popcorn,” I continue, “but what happened to the ice cream?”
“My favorite choice is well stocked,” she says, opening the bottom-drawer freezer and waving a hand across it. “I have Häagen-Dazs only because it’s my favorite. My top choice: pralines and cream, which is so very, very incredible.”
“Two verys. That sounds serious.”
“It is. It’s addictive.”
Like her, I think, when normally it’s simply fucking a beautiful woman I find addictive, until it’s over.