Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“I know we probably don’t have a future, but we could have right now.” Her hand smooths up my waist to my chest, resting over my pounding heart. “We could have tonight and tomorrow and memories to keep us warm through the long, cold winter.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper, my voice strained with the effort it’s taking not to drag her lips to mine.
“I don’t want to hurt you, either,” she says. “So, let’s…not hurt each other. Let’s just make each other feel good for however long we have before you leave, and then go our separate ways.”
She’s a master negotiator. Either that, or my cock has simply siphoned too much blood away from my brain for me to think clearly. I almost forget all the other reasons—aside from my impending departure—that hooking up with Nora would be a bad idea.
I’m about to carry her into the bedroom and prove to her just how absolutely straight and Nora-obsessed I am, when my pager goes off.
My pager, the one that only beeps when my handler urgently needs to get in touch with me.
My handler at the CIA…
I stand, lifting Nora with me and setting her back in her own chair before dashing to grab my pager from my backpack. When I glance down at the small screen I see three words—Needs More Sprinkles—and know Nora and I won’t be enjoying a night between the sheets.
Hell, we probably won’t be sleeping at all.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“We have to go,” I grit out. “Right now.”
Chapter Nine
NORA
The only thing stranger than running through the rain in the dark with a belching kitten hidden under the rain slicker Matty lent me from the treehouse’s extensive coat collection, with no idea where I’m going or why Matty has a sudden, urgent appointment at seven p.m. on Thanksgiving night?
Realizing we’re rolling up to his sister Melissa’s catering company a little over an hour later.
“Is this a family emergency?” I ask, shifting my gaze from the Deliciously Yours sign in front of the cute Victorian cottage.
“No.” Matty pulls around to the back, as chatty as he’s been the entire drive.
“Oh, right. No,” I echo, dipping my head closer to the top of Clyde’s sleeping head. The cat didn’t seem inclined to leave my raincoat when I strapped in, so I left him cradled against my chest, a decision that calmed his belching and resulted in no further motion sickness. Thank goodness. I want to make things up to Clyde after nearly crushing his sweet, fluffy self, but if I never smell cat sick again, it will be too soon. “Matty said no, Clyde,” I whisper as the cat begins to blink his big blue eyes, “and that’s apparently all we need to know.”
“I’ll explain later.” He pulls into a parking spot, visibly tense as he glances through the rain-streaked window at the empty spaces all around him. “Come on, Mel. Don’t let me down now.”
“Why is Mel meeting us here?” I ask, proving I’m an eternal optimist. Sure, Matty’s refused to answer all the other questions I asked on the way over, but sooner or later, he’ll have to crack and give me something. “I would have thought she’d be tired after spending the day stuffing herself silly at your parents’ house.”
“She didn’t stay long,” he says, still searching the darkness around us. “Ben took their son to his parents’ house in St. Louis for Thanksgiving this year. It’s her first holiday without Chase, and she wasn’t feeling very festive.”
My lips turn down. “That sounds hard. All the more reason to leave her cozy at home instead of asking for weird favors on a dark and stormy night.”
“There’s nothing weird about asking your twin sister for a favor, no matter the time of day or night,” he says. “Mel doesn’t hesitate to reach out when she needs help. I can’t count the times I’ve been up in the middle of the night grabbing baby Tylenol or driving over to her place to make sure that raccoon who sneaks around in her attic hasn’t found a way to break into the main part of the house. And don’t even get me started on the recipes.”
“The recipes?”
“If she comes up with something new, she wants someone with a ‘layman’s palate’ to taste it right away. She had me up at two a.m. a few weeks ago to try the roasted root vegetable smash with mint gravy she—” He breaks off with a squint that becomes a relieved smile as the headlights zooming around the side of the cottage prove to be attached to his sister’s vintage VW bug. He lifts a hand before turning back to me. “Just one second. I’ll be right back.”
He swings out the driver’s side into the persistent drizzle and I waste zero seconds following him, not wanting to miss a second of his chat with his sister.