Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
He sets one of the bouquets from the sidewalk display on the counter.
“You’ve been searching all of Dallas for this particular bouquet?” I wrap it in paper for him.
His gaze slides to mine while he digs money from his pocket, and a tiny grin plays on his lips. “So it would seem.”
“Your wife will love this. It’s filled with fragrant hyacinth and ranunculus.”
Milo tosses a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter. I open the register to get his change.
“Keep it,” he says.
I set his change next to the bouquet. “You don’t tip a florist unless we deliver, and you feel generous.”
He frowns at the money for a few seconds before folding it and shoving it back into his pocket. “It’s for my sister, not my wife.”
My giddy heart slows to a dull, pulsing thud in my chest. “Sister?”
“She’s in the hospital. That’s why I was there when we ran into each other.”
“Sister?” I’m not sure how many times I have to say the word before it makes sense. Maybe never. “I didn’t … know … I mean, why didn’t you ever mention your sister?”
He lifts a shoulder, eyes narrowed a fraction while he stares at the wrapped flowers on the counter. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Milo’s lips twist. “It’s complicated.”
I start to speak but clamp my mouth shut. I want to say, “What’s not complicated?” But I refrain from going there. Milo has never shared his life with me, and the more I think about it, the angrier I get at my stupid heart for always having such a visceral reaction to his nearness.
“Well, I hope she likes the flowers.” I can’t keep all the bitterness out of my voice, but I do my best. It’s not the least bit soothing, but I still chant in my head: Not my circus, not my monkeys.
I escaped the fucked-up world of the Ellingtons. Even if Milo Odell still carries around a big chunk of my heart in his pocket, I can’t go back. Not physically. Not emotionally.
Maybe he has ten siblings, four wives, six kids, and a pet crocodile. It’s none of my business anymore.
He picks up the bouquet and brings it to his nose before pulling a ranunculus. “Can we get a cup of coffee or something?”
“I’m the only one here. No coffee breaks for me.”
Twisting his body, he inspects the front door. “Sign says you close at four. How about a cup of decaf at five?”
“I eat dinner at five.”
“Then have dinner with me.” He leans forward, slipping the flower behind my ear.
I stiffen, suffocated by his nearness. And leather …
He grins before slipping his hat back onto his head.
God … he’s only gotten sexier.
“It’s just dinner.”
“What if I have a boyfriend?”
“What if I have a wife?”
Our gazes lock, a silent standoff. I can’t imagine the day when I can share space with Milo and not feel like he has more power over me than any other human.
More than Ruthie.
More than Fletcher.
More than Pauline or Jolene.
Power isn’t taken; it’s given. It’s too intangible to steal.
When Ruthie died, it was Milo’s hand that took mine. It was he who fed me. It was his arms that held me, that made me feel safe. He didn’t carry me. He watched me stumble my way into womanhood. He didn’t give me strength; he showed me strength. When I gave him my trust, I gave him power over me.
As we stand here, I ask myself, do you trust him? And if the answer’s still yes, then Milo Odell still has tremendous power over me.
He’s baited me with a piece of his past—a sister. I should say no. I need to say no. I absolutely should not say yes to dinner with Milo Odell.
With a quick nod toward the window that causes him to glance over his shoulder, I say, “Right there. They have the best tacos in Dallas. I’ll be there at five. I won’t wait to order, and I'm leaving when I’m done eating.”
Milo faces me again, a slow grin blooming along his face while he tips his hat to me. “Five o’clock.”
Where is the word-fumbling man I encountered at the hospital three weeks ago? Nowhere to be found. This guy struts out of the shop, confidence rolling off him in crashing waves with not so much as a glance back at me.
This isn’t good.
27
TACOS IN SILENCE
MILO
I check my watch while Fletcher yammers on about someone stealing a horse. One fucking horse. Not even a good horse.
“Someone’s going to pay for coming onto my property, breaking down my fence, and stealing my fucking horse. No excuses. No second chances. Just put a bullet in their head. Do you hear me?”
It’s four fifteen. Traffic’s gonna be a bitch.
“Milo?”
“Yeah?” I jerk my attention back to him.
“Is there someplace more important that you need to be? You keep checking your watch instead of answering me. Did you hear me? Shoot to kill. Understood?”