Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67144 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You know, I’ve been considering scheduling a meeting with Dallo. He’s busy, so he might not even want to see me. But let’s bring him into the fold and see what shakes out. Let’s see where his loyalties lie.”
“I have one request.”
“What might that be?”
I smile. “If he’s behind this, you’ll give me two minutes with him alone before you call the police.”
“Go to bed. Get some sleep.”
“Think of all the things I’ve done for your family. Remember Barrett’s election and the fight at the farm? Or when Lincoln almost got rocked by Nate Hughes? Or when Graham tried to intimidate Walker Gibson in a bar?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Two minutes, Landry, or we’re done,” I say, only half joking.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
I end the call, shut my computer, and put my mug in the dishwasher. Then I go back to bed.
Dahlia is sleeping peacefully, her sweet lips pressed together in a pout. I want to kiss them, but if I do, she’ll wake up, and we’ll fuck and …
I climb in beside her and touch my lips to hers.
Her long lashes flutter awake, and a slow smile stretches across her pink cheeks when her eyes focus.
I’d do anything for this woman. I’d do anything to keep this smile on her face, this peace in her eyes. It’s what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
“What time is it?” she asks, sleepily.
“About four.”
“Why are you up? Everything okay?”
I pull her against me, tucking her head beneath my chin. “It is now.”
“I was having a dream,” she says.
“What was it about?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
I kiss the top of her head. “Was it a good one?”
She leans back, her eyes flickering in the dim moonlight. “It was a great one. Want me to show you?”
I roll her onto her back and hover over her. Her legs wrap around my waist, her arms dangling over my shoulders.
“How did you know?” she asks, giggling.
“It was a good guess.”
I forget about my troubles and fears and what tomorrow might hold. Instead, I lose myself in Dahlia.
She might’ve been dreaming about this, but she is my dream.
I hope she understands that someday.
Chapter Nineteen
Dahlia
I climb the steps from the workout room, leaving Troy behind to run another five miles. I didn’t even want to work out this morning, but I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to see him shirtless and sweating—even if that meant lifting weights because he says it’s good for my bones. It won’t be good for my bones if I drop one from fatigue and break my foot. But I didn’t bring that up. I’ll save that for a time when I need him moody.
Moody sex, I’ve learned, is the best.
I yawn, heading into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. My dreams last night were actual nightmares—something I didn’t tell Troy. For one, I’m starting to think that he takes any discomfort or perceived unhappiness to heart as if it’s his fault or responsibility.
That breaks my heart.
For two, I know the reason for the bad dreams is a nonissue. It’s silly.
The man next door last night is not a threat. He had to have passed a background check to live here. They card every person coming onto the island and again to enter this neighborhood. He’s lived here for who knows how long. It’s not like he bought a house a day ago to stalk me. He even named-dropped Grey.
All that being said, I know that Troy would’ve been on top of things if he thought anything was even remotely amiss. He wouldn’t get sidetracked by a blow job or a smooth-talking name-dropper, so I could largely logic my way anxiety. Still, I’m not sure my heartbeat ever dropped back to its baseline rate. Maybe it would when this is all over.
I pour myself a steaming cup of joe and add a little milk. But as soon as the acidity hits my stomach, I nearly vomit.
“You gotta love anxiety,” I grumble, dumping the caffeine down the drain.
I sit at the table, feeling the warmth of the sunshine streaming through the windows, and think about Burt—the other part of my night of terrors. I kept seeing him bleeding, reaching his old, wrinkled hand to me, and begging me to help.
Tears fill my eyes. I ache for him. He didn’t deserve Freddy’s wrath … and it’s my fault. I brought Freddy into Burt’s world. I literally hate myself for that.
My face heats as I consider, once again, calling him. The thought is a rock in my stomach, getting thrown around by the acid that’s burning holes in my organs.
I know I shouldn’t call him. I shouldn’t turn my phone on. Ford downloaded the data from it and let me keep it just in case but was adamant I keep it off.