Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Baby’s kicking,” he says, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Who would’ve thought something so simple would make me so damn happy?”
Dull pain throbs behind my ribs. An aching loneliness for myself followed by joy for my friend who lost so many years of his life paying for a crime he didn’t commit. I force a smile. “Brother, you deserve all the happiness in the world.”
His gaze returns to the cold and calculating one I know so well. “So do you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Emily
“What? No cute little outfits today, Emily?” my coworker George asks with a sneer as I pass his desk on my way to my own.
Har. Har. Jokes about my clothes never get old. As if dressing nicely for work is some sort of crime.
“My car broke down. I had to change.” That’s the only explanation I’ll be giving for my lateness and clothing choices. I slip a lab apron over my head, reaching behind me to tie it. “What have you got for me?”
He gestures toward the white plastic shelf that lines one wall of our small office. Rows and rows of water samples wait for testing.
“Take your pick. Although, Johnsonville’s already called twice this morning to ask about their results.”
“Great,” I grumble. “Bet they suspect the test will show their BAC is out of compliance.”
“Bunch of clowns out there,” George mumbles, throwing a handful of corn chips in his mouth.
“True story.” I don’t feel like dealing with any calls from Johnsonville’s water department today, so I pick up their samples first. Irritated that I’m giving in to the squeaky wheel syndrome, I plunk the plastic container on the counter harder than necessary.
“Easy, redster.” Behind me, George chuckles.
Redster—for my red hair. How original. My jaw clenches. I hate every single one of those cutesy nicknames. I reach for my earbuds and look through my phone for my favorite true crime podcast. That should be enough to drown out George’s munching noises and annoying commentary.
By the end of the day, I’m twitching to leave more than usual. Why am I so excited to see Dex again?
Five minutes before quitting time, the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle shakes the walls.
Dex.
He’s early.
I can’t go running out the door. Not after showing up late this morning.
My feet strongly disagree with my decision to wait. I tap my toes as I finish sending the last of my test results.
Finally, I’m able to leave. I step outside, lifting my arm to shield my eyes from the sun. A flash of silver to my right catches my eye. Dex’s bike. I hurry toward him, not caring if I resemble an eager puppy.
“You’re here,” I say breathlessly when I reach his side.
He turns and his serious expression shifts into something resembling a smile. “I always keep my word.”
“I didn’t think otherwise,” I mutter. Why does something dumb always seem to fly out of my mouth around him?
“Hop on.”
I strap my helmet into place and arrange my purse across my body, then grip his shoulder and swing my leg over the bike. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch George standing on the sidewalk gaping at me. I squeeze Dex’s shoulders. “All set!”
The furious thunder of the bike’s engine drowns out everything.
“Hold on,” Dex shouts.
I wrap my arms around his waist. For a brief second, his warm, leather-gloved hand rests over mine. As if he wants to reassure himself that I’m secure. Or maybe to reassure me that I’m safe with him. Whatever the reason, I’m giddy from his touch.
The bike rocks backward then lurches forward. I close my eyes and hold tight.
Much too soon, the bike slows to a stop. I open my eyes. Disappointment washes over me. My driveway. Usually, I relish a few minutes home alone before Libby returns in a whirlwind of chatter and chaos. Today, I want to spend more time with Dex.
He shuts down the bike. My heart kicks. He’s planning to stay?
“Do you want to come inside?” I ask.
“Just for a minute. To give you an update on your car.”
My car. Right.
I dismount the bike with all the grace of a baby giraffe, wobbling for a second. Dex reaches out, clasping a hand around my thigh to steady me.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
Shocked, I stare down, surprised my pants aren’t on fire from the contact. Jesus, his hands are big. My not-at-all tiny thigh almost looks itty-bitty under his massive hand.
As if my skin burns through the layers of denim and leather between us, he yanks his hand away.
“Takes time to get used to riding,” he says.
“I feel safe with you,” I blurt out. “I mean, motorcycles always seemed like two-wheeled death traps. But you make the ride seem effortless.” Heat sears my cheeks. What the hell am I babbling about?
“Thanks.”
I back up so he can get off the bike but stand there, staring at him like he’s a juicy prime rib I can’t wait to shove in my mouth.