Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
What I can control is my timeline. Although I'm no closer to figuring out what the hell Wilkinson is doing here, I can give myself two more weeks to figure it out before resorting to certain tactics I am urged to only use when absolutely necessary.
Sitting back down at my spot at the bar makes me feel like a failure. Jericho came back home after only two days and had already cleared another case. That makes his third one since I got to Tennessee. Ace isn't on my ass, and Jericho doesn't brag or give me shit for not closing out my case, but it doesn't keep that self-recrimination from whispering how incompetent I've been.
My whiskey glass hasn't been touched that I know of. I don't know if she even noticed that I was gone, but I wasn't planning to drink the whiskey anyway. Knowing I won't consume it doesn't keep me from wrapping my hands around it and watching her.
As I figured she would, she scarcely even looks in my direction, purposely ignoring me. I don’t know if she knows how much it turns me on, but I fight the unfamiliar urge to grin when she steps close enough that I can smell her skin but doesn’t acknowledge me.
I don’t get up and leave until that other prick who has been staring at her and engaging her in conversation leaves. I could see the warning in his eyes every time he glanced over at me, as if I’m the one she needs to worry about. Seems the man forgot about the gold band on his left hand the entire time he was flirting with her. Disloyal men make my skin crawl. Why promise yourself to someone, only to turn around and break those vows? Just keep your fucking mouth shut, or, better yet, be a real man and tell your partner that they don’t have a chance of being your one and only. People are so fucking selfish and will pick have their cake and eat it too over staying faithful.
I’m pulling my helmet onto my head when the front door of the bar opens, and I watch as Zara locks it up.
She doesn’t seem frightened of me as she approaches, but I can see her struggle as she tries her best to ignore me now, the same way she has most of the night. I have no doubt it’s a little more difficult when she doesn’t have someone else to talk to and there isn’t a squeaky-clean bar top to wipe down for the millionth time.
“I was—"
I hate the way she jolts at the sound of my voice, as if she didn’t think I’d speak to her at all.
“I was planning on going for a ride,” I continue. “Thought maybe you’d like to go.”
She turns her attention in my direction, my skin coming alive when she sweeps her eyes down my body before taking a long hard look at the bike positioned between my legs.
“It’s nearly three in the morning,” she mutters.
With a shrug, I reach up and clip the helmet into place, my hands reaching up to hit the ignition switch.
I’m not going to beg her.
Going to lunch like she offered the other day puts us face-to-face, talking, socializing. That just won’t work for me. But I can spend time with her, gain some of her trust, with a bike ride, and we won't have to speak to each other. Hell, other than yelling, speaking while on a ride is barely even possible. It seems like the best solution I could come up with, although I hadn't even considered it until my mouth opened with the suggestion.
Just as I turn over the ignition, I feel her hands on my shoulders. I realize with the way she mounts the bike that this isn't going to be her first ride on such a machine, and, for some reason, that annoys me a little. The woman works at a dive bar with a drug-dealing ex who worked at a garage. Of course, she's lived a little and has ridden on a motorcycle before.
Instead of hitting the road, I climb off the bike, watching as she narrows her eyes at me.
"Are you kidding?" she snaps. "Is this some sort of game to you? You're the biggest—"
Her words screech to a halt when I unclip my helmet and move to put it on her head.
"It's a little big," I explain as I tighten the strap. "My melon is twice the size of yours, but it's just a precaution."
Once I'm done and take a step back, she lifts her hands to touch the strap, and something akin to warmth fills my chest when it's clear that she doesn't feel the need to make further adjustments. I can't really call it trust, but it feels a little like that.