Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
It thumps even harder when he answers.
He’s still in his uniform slacks, crisp and blue and pressed just right, highlighting the angle of his hips. But he’s stripped down to a black short-sleeved undershirt that clings to his body like paint, hugging his chest and nearly snapping at the seams over sculpted biceps.
His silvery-white hair looks disarrayed tonight, falling into his eyes.
And those silvery eyes seem dilated behind a pair of thin rimless glasses.
A glass tumbler filled with gold liquid surrounding large ice cubes dangles from one hand.
Oh, my.
No wonder he wanted to meet here instead of in public. It would probably look sketchy for an upstanding officer of Redhaven PD to be tipsy among the people, even if he’s not on duty.
Micah leans against the doorframe with a long, brooding look.
He’s so unreadable I feel naked, every inch of me prickling as he takes me in. I want to say hello, but I can’t look away from him until Rolf thrusts his head past Micah’s leg.
The dog looks up at me with guarded curiosity, laying his ears back.
“Still hates me, huh?” I manage a smile, clutching the strap of my bag.
“I told you, he’s stubborn.” Micah stares, then takes a step back. “Come on in.”
I follow him inside.
It really does feel like stepping into a wild animal’s den.
The entire house is dark, paneled in mocha shades of wood in interlocking accent patterns to create a subtle motif. Black stone makes up the rough-tiled floor, the massive fireplace, and the lower wall accents. The furniture is all black leather, too, with hints of glinting steel here and there.
It’s almost too classy for small-town North Carolina.
“I feel like I just stepped through a portal. Right into your fancy New York condo.”
Micah stops mid-stride, looking over his shoulder.
I can only make out one blue-grey eye past the gleam of his glasses, but it’s hard, bitter.
Oof.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, even if I’m not sure why it upsets him.
I feel like I’ve earned the wary looks from Rolf as the dog pads along in our wake, his nails clicking on the tile. We head for the basement.
But Micah only shakes his head and moves on, nodding at the seating arrangement around the crackling fireplace.
“Pick a spot and make yourself comfortable,” he says. There’s a grittier edge to his voice, like the alcohol just scoured his throat. And it turns huskier, even more burned, as he takes a deep sip from the tumbler, making his way over to the long wet bar in glossy black lacquer along the room’s back wall. “What’s your poison?”
I blink, drifting toward an overstuffed leather chair.
“Uh, good question. I don’t drink much to be honest. Just the occasional beer now and then with Grandpa.”
“Hmm.” He sets his tumbler down on the bartop with a clink and slips behind the bar. “Do you like sweet or tart?”
“Depends on the mood.” I sink down in the chair, holding my bag in my lap. “I think tart sounds good right now.”
“I can work with that.”
Whatever I’m expecting, it’s not the way he moves—graceful, efficient, slinging bottles onto the counter and whipping out a cocktail glass with practiced ease.
His big hands move like magic as he pours.
I don’t even see the labels except for the lime juice.
In under a minute, he’s whipped up something green and translucent with sugar around the rim and a fresh lime crescent wedged onto the cocktail glass. I think there’s a sprig of mint in the concoction, too.
“Wow.” I can smell it from here, breathing deeply. “That was so cool.”
Micah blinks like he’s snapping awake from a trance.
He glances over almost sheepishly as he stuffs the bottles back under the bar, closing a concealed fridge with a faint thump.
“Hardly,” he says. “I just paid my way through college slinging drinks. Let’s see if you hate yours.” He picks up my drink and his tumbler, angling around the bar on sinful strides, offering the glass. “Bottom’s up.”
I take the cool glass and inhale.
It’s tart, all right, but nothing overwhelming.
“What is it?”
“Mint lime mojito with a splash of strawberry to take the edge off—and because pink is your middle name.” He flops down in the easy chair next to me, propping his whiskey tumbler on his knee, his knuckles bulging around his glass.
Smiling, I take a careful sip, watching him over the rim.
The taste hits in layers.
First the sugar, then a delicate sting of sour lime, right before the strawberry sweetness and crisp mint floods taste buds primed by the lime.
My eyes widen.
“Oh, man, that’s good!” I sound like such a dork.
But that wins me a weary smile, still bitter and dark. “Maybe I should’ve stuck with bartending instead of chasing phantoms here. I could’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”
Concern whips through me.
“Micah? Are you okay?” I hold my glass close in both hands.