Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Josie gave me a firm nod. “Yes.”
It was my turn to bark a laugh. “And if you have a boyfriend, you think he’s going to be okay with you telling him you have to have sex with me before you can have it with him?”
“I’ll just say tough luck, Mr. Duck.”
I tried to conceal my amusement. She hadn’t said that in years. “You can’t say that to him.”
“Why?” She slanted her head to the side.
“Because you say that to me.”
She nipped at my lower lip and whispered, “You don’t own me.”
I rested my hands on her ass. “Not all of you.” My lips found her neck, and I kissed my way to her bare shoulder. “Just the best of you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“You good?” Dr. Cornwell asks when he saunters into the conference room.
“Of course. Not Alicia, though.”
“One shot, right to his knee. You never cease to amaze me, Watts.” Dr. Cornwell slides on his reading glasses and taps his tablet as the others file into the room.
“I’ve been called to testify. It’s kind of last minute. I’ll be back after lunch. If you’re not done—”
“Go.” He shoos me with one hand while keeping his focus on his tablet.
I grab my handbag and a case file from the table for court. “Is it weird that shooting a man in the knee didn’t faze me?”
Several of my asshole colleagues mumble a “yes.”
“Weird?” Cornwell eyes me over the top of his reading glasses sitting low on his prominent nose.
“Should I feel remorse? Fear of retaliation? Shock that I did it so easily? Something? I mean … I don’t really feel anything about it. I didn’t panic. I just did it like someone does something on autopilot or instinct. Gave my account to the police. Drove home. Cycled. Showered. And slept like a corpse.”
After a few silent seconds, he removes his glasses. “Frankly, I don’t know. I’ve never shot anyone. I don’t own a gun. I’ve removed too many bullets to feel like I’d ever want to put one into another human being. But consider all the people who think we are emotionless because of the job we do. Nothing could be further from the truth. We are methodical and controlled with our emotions. I’m sure that carries over to other parts of your life. My wife says I ground her because she’s a ball of unchecked emotions, and I’m silently contemplative to the point she often feels the need to see if I still have a pulse.”
I chuckle. “I don’t feel so bad now.” I head toward the door.
“Because I’m your idol?”
“Sure, sure, sure …”
After a morning of testimony, I grab lunch at a food truck and head toward my car. I half expect Detective Mosley to call me, but he doesn’t.
Not today.
Not the following day.
Or the following day.
I’m good. Or so I tell myself. How does his new existence in my life transport me back to the young girl spying out my window, waiting for Colten to come home from baseball practice?
On my way home (so far out of my way), I drive by his house, slowing down to see if I see anyone through the front window. When I don’t, I continue to the end of the street.
My phone rings. I hit the handsfree button on my steering wheel when I see it’s Detective Moseley. Does he have a sixth sense that I’m spying on him?
“Hello?”
“You’re a little out of your neighborhood, Watts. What’s up?”
I cringe, glancing in my rearview mirror just as he pulls into his driveway. “Uh … I know your mom is leaving soon, so I was going to say goodbye, but it didn’t look like anyone was home, so …”
“I’m home.”
On a nervous laugh, I nod to myself. “Yeah. I see that.”
“Reagan and my mom go home tomorrow. You should come for dinner.”
“It’s your last night together. I’m not intruding on that.”
“The way I intruded on dinner at your house nearly every night for months after my parents separated?”
“That was different. My mom invited you.”
“True. Hold on a sec …” I hear a few indistinguishable sounds then the click of a door shutting. “Hey, Mom … can Josie come to dinner?”
Oh my god …
I’m embarrassed, and I’m not even in the house. He’s acting like a child inviting a friend to dinner.
“She said yes. Come over. After the old and the young go to bed, you can hang out in the garage with me.”
I turn the corner to circle around the block. “I’ll come to dinner, but then I have to go home.”
“Curfew?” he asks.
I grin. “Something like that.”
When I pull into the driveway, he’s standing on his porch, tie loose, jacket open, and his hands planted in his front pockets.
He’s … a sight.
“I’m intruding,” I say for a lack of other words as I approach him.
“My mom would be disappointed if she didn’t get to say goodbye. It’s like you knew.”