Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes when catcalls and backslapping echo down the line, then grumble a thanks to Detective Rice for his time before disconnecting our call.
I’m about to dig deeper into Blake’s file when Grayson enters the kitchen. His hair is wet from being recently washed, and he’s wearing a light button-up shirt and dark jeans that hug his ass.
My gawk shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary for him. When we worked undercover gigs together, I got busted more times than I can count admiring his assets, but he acts as if I tossed him a life vest after he swam the English Channel.
“You okay, freckles?”
I nod, then yawn. “Just waking up without a hefty dose of caffeine.”
I curse my stupidity to hell when he arches a brow. “Eight hours not enough for you?”
I could call in defeat, but no one goes to a fight to watch the underdog get knocked out by the reigning champ one second into the match. “Have you ever tried to sleep with a watermelon strapped to your stomach?”
He props his ass against my chair and leans over the counter. He’s almost touching me, but he’s not quite there. “It wasn’t strapped to my stomach, but one time, I held it in my hands long enough to get the gist of what you’re saying.”
Why did he have to bring that up? I’m trying to keep my heart in check, and he ruins it by reminding me how even in my dreams, he rocked my world better than any real-life partner ever has.
It wasn’t even real, for crying out loud!
Grayson’s now-lively eyes dance between mine for several extended seconds before he murmurs, “Come on.” He gestures with his head to the living room. “We’ll be more comfortable in there.”
I should tell him that I’m fine working where I am, and that he doesn’t need to babysit me, but the relief that sparks through his eyes when I don’t immediately shoot down his suggestion and the zap of his hands on me when he helps me off the stool see me entering the living room faster than a bolt of lightning brightens a blackened sky.
34
GRAYSON
Agrin tugs at one side of my lips when I race through an intersection before the amber light switches to red. The pie Macy is holding becomes airborne, and since I got the largest one available—mindful Macy loves leftovers—there’s hardly any room for it to land when it free-falls back into Macy’s lap.
Her stomach has grown exponentially this week, and she has a glow I now understand.
Despite her unease when I told her about Cameron’s invitation, she dressed up for the occasion. Her pale-blue dress complements her baby bump, and its hem is fun and flirty. Thankfully, her light makeup keeps her freckles unhidden, and she slathered her lips in the lip gloss I can still taste even days after our kiss.
She looks beautiful, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t apprehensive.
Why did Cameron invite Macy to dinner?
When the text came through, I was happy at first—relieved, even. It felt like a step toward normal, and I loved that Macy would be a part of that. But the more I thought about it, the more it gnawed at me.
This isn’t like Cameron at all. She had a mile-long jealousy streak when we dated. She accused me of cheating if I so much as looked in another woman’s direction, so for her to invite Macy out of all the people she could pick feels off.
It’s too late to back out now, though. We’ve reached Cameron’s building.
After parking as close to the entrance as possible, not wanting Macy to walk too far, I kill the engine before collecting the pie from Macy. We walk in together, and even with the elevator attendant striving to spark a conversation, our ride to the fifth floor is awkwardly quiet.
At her door, Cameron greets us with an almost too-wide smile.
“Hi. Come in, come in.” She steps to the side before adding a requirement that wasn’t a part of our day yesterday. “Shoes off, please. I had the rugs recently cleaned.”
I glance at Macy, who grimaces while attempting to toe off her heels. It’s impossible since they have three buckles each, and there’s nowhere for her to sit that wouldn’t require her to trample across recently cleaned rugs.
“Let me.”
Before one of the many denials I see in Macy’s eyes can be articulated, I dump the pie onto the entryway table, then bob down to assist Macy in removing her shoes. Goose bumps dot her skin when I caress the back of her knee so I can carefully pry her shoe off her swollen ankle without causing her any pain. They come away without too much effort, but the unsightly marks they leave behind annoy me.
Once I have her stilettos stored next to my boots, I guide her inside Cameron’s apartment with my hand on the small of her back and the pie balancing on my other hand. The air is thick with the scent of baked goods—perhaps garlic bread or something similar. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is when Macy’s recently cleaned hair streams through my nostrils.