I’m in the kitchen chopping up radishes. Onions are pickling in a bowl beside the sink.
Myles doesn’t know what he’s missing. I make insane tacos.
What is the big deal about coming to dinner, anyway? It’s just food.
My knife pauses in the act of cutting a radish sliver.
What happened last night shouldn’t happen again, all right? I’m responsible for letting it get that far and I’m sorry. But I just want to solve this case and get back to hunting bounties. There’s no room for a diversion.
I’m distracting him. That’s why he won’t come eat my delicious taco.
Tacos. Plural.
I’ve had some time to reflect since we came back from the disastrous snorkeling outing. I took a really long bath and walked on the beach while Jude read a Sedaris book in the backyard hammock. And I’m beginning to develop a suspicion. When I told Myles this relationship was temporary and I wouldn’t tangle him up in strings, he clearly didn’t believe me.
Why would he?
I invited him to dinner. I told him about my childhood. I cried in front of him.
For godsakes, Taylor. The least I can do is act like hookup material. Of course he keeps retreating. He’s being…decent. Isn’t he? He’s trying to do the right thing by keeping me at arm’s length. Not only for the good of his investigation, but because he obviously doesn’t believe I can have a totally guilt-free, uncomplicated fling.
And maybe, just maybe…he’s right.
I don’t know what happened this morning, but when he carried Jude to the car, I might have felt a weird flop in my chest. A very noticeable one. That flop sent reverberations all the way down to my toes and I…well. I did what any red-blooded woman would do when she experiences a very distinct chest flop.
I came straight home and Googled him.
Detective resigns after kidnapping case misfire.
When I saw the headline, I almost closed the browser tab. What kept me scrolling was the picture of Myles. Clean-shaven with dark, close-cropped hair, coming down the steps of a government building in a suit. All of his distinct lines were there. The brawn of his shoulders and the brittle irritation of his jaw. But he looked so different. Younger, less road weary.
I already knew the beginning of the story. Myles was working the Christopher Bunton case. But the three-year-old article helped fill in the blanks. He focused the investigation on the wrong suspect. A neighbor with a record of assault. A man with no alibi. A loner. But it had turned out to be the stepfather, a man heavily involved in the investigation and respected in the community who also wanted more freedom. Less of a financial strain on his bank account. He’d conspired with his sister to take Christopher across state lines and sell him to a couple he’d found on the internet who were willing to pay for an under-the-table adoption. By the time the investigation shifted, Christopher had been living in his new home for a month. In bad conditions. Not being fed properly. Sharing a room with four other children. Sent out every day to beg on the street and bring home what he earned.
Traumatized Boy Returned to His Mother.
That was the second article that mentioned Detective Myles Sumner.
He’d failed to mention he’d solved the case. Brought the boy home.
Of course he’d completely left that part out.
Myles is mean and rough—actually, more like serrated—around the edges and spectacularly crass. But thanks to him continuously proving he’s more than just his bad temper and surly attitude, I am utterly intrigued by him and my attraction to him is sprouting teeth. Sharp ones that dig in a little more every time he rumbles past on his bike and I feel the vibrations on my inner thighs, my belly twisting long and low. I’ve been left hanging twice now, reaching a sexual high and not seeing it through to completion and I’m not going to lie, it’s beginning to get to me.
Bright and early tomorrow morning, I’m going to the local sex toy shop.
Needs must.
I must.
There is no way I can make it another five days without an orgasm after being driven so thoroughly to the edge. I’m going to buy the newest model they’ve got with all of the bells and whistles and then I’m going to take it with me on the longest clawfooted bath time in history. Tomorrow morning, this vacation truly begins.
Myles rides past on his bike again.
I stab a radish with the tip of my butcher knife.
Something is different this time, though. He stops and parks outside of the house. I hear a woman’s voice mingle with his guttural tone. Is he talking to someone? Setting down the knife, I leave the kitchen and cross the living room to look out the front window.