Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89729 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“I will.” Jude tips his head toward the porch where Myles is now pacing back and forth, speaking in a low voice into his phone. “He camped out there all night. Guarding you.”
“Guarding us,” I clarify, licking syrup off the tip of my pinkie. “And I think he’s just lying in wait so he can catch the perp if they return to the scene of the crime.”
“Are you sure about that?” I’m glad to see the characteristic amusement back on Jude’s face. Just not about this. “Dude seems kind of smitten.”
A skeptical laugh bursts out of me. “What is your definition of smitten? Because last night, I’m pretty sure he called me a spring bridezilla waiting to happen.”
Jude chokes and I jump to my feet, prepared to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
Eyes watery, he waves me off. “I’m fine. Oh my God, he didn’t.”
“He did.”
“And you still…talked…to him? Before the buoy hit?”
“Yes.” I’ve only just picked up my fork, but I set it back down with a thunk. “Oh my god, I hooked up with him after he called me a future bridezilla. What is wrong with me?”
Jude blows out a breath. “Maybe you’re attracted to his honesty.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll jam this fork into his rectum—”
Someone clears their throat from the front entrance.
Jude’s and my heads whip around to find Myles leaning against the doorjamb, notebook at his side. Watching me. Wary, as usual. “Morning,” he drawls, pushing off the frame and sauntering into the kitchen. “Going to steal some coffee. Figure you won’t mind, since I spent the night protecting your asses.”
“No one asked you to do that,” I say brightly. “We can look after ourselves.”
He grunts, back muscles shifting beneath his T-shirt as he fills a mug.
I’m not at all interested in the way those ancient jeans hug his butt.
Couldn’t care less.
Jude is looking between me and Myles, growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute. My brother hates sustained silences. Both of us do, really, because my parents enforced a no talking at dinner rule after particularly harried workdays. They were tired. They’d placed us neatly in our boxes and nothing I said could change their impression of me. If I rode my bike with no hands for a whole five seconds or volunteered to say the Pledge of Allegiance on the loudspeaker at school, I was still play-it-safe Taylor to them. Somewhere along the line, I stopped trying to change their mind. And my own.
All those years ago, Jude and I would sit in silence at our dining room table, side by side, bursting with news from school and friendships, we were forced to swallow it down until we could debrief later, alone in the patch of hallway between our rooms. Now as adults, we tend to chatter to fill any conversational voids, especially at meals. Not this time, I try to communicate with a shake of my head at Jude, but he’s turning red with the need to say something, anything. “Throw yourself on a waffle, if you want,” Jude says, sounding like a burst balloon. “The griddle is still on.”
The bounty hunter grins at me over his stupidly huge shoulder. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Jude mouths an apology to me. His phone lights up on the table, momentarily distracting him. With a swallow, he quickly shoves the device into the pocket of his board shorts. The action is not lost on me, but I can hardly question it right now. Not with an ogre in our midst. “What’s on the agenda for the day, big guy?” Jude asks the bounty hunter. “Car chase? Chalk outline tutorial?”
I shake my head at my brother in disappointment.
“I don’t share leads with suspects,” states the infuriating man.
“Really?” I exclaim. “We’re still suspects even after someone threw a buoy through our window?”
“Jude doesn’t have an alibi during the time of the buoy tossing. Could have been him trying to throw me off your trail.”
Based on the bounty hunter’s casual tone of voice—and the fact that his back is facing me despite an assortment of knives resting on the table—he doesn’t really suspect us. But the fact that he won’t mark us off the list or freely share information angers me all the same.
“I should have called the police last night when I found the gun, instead of you. Officer Wright is much better at communicating.”
“Wright runs his mouth. He shouldn’t have told you jack shit to begin with.” I was wrong. Myles is not in a casual mood at all. When he turns around, his knuckles are so white around the mug of coffee, I brace for it to shatter. “These are the consequences of him sharing classified information with you. Now someone is out there pissed off that you’re digging. Pissed off enough to do something that could lead to you getting hurt. Do you understand that?”