Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
But I promise you, no matter how crazy it sounds, they fucked me over.
Once upon a time, Montero Arrendell killed my sister.
What kind of sons do you think a man like that raises?
Snarling, I force my mind off this morbid track before it can drag me down memory lane, save the last of my work, and lunge out of the chair.
On my way out, I blow Mallory a kiss that always makes her laugh and say my goodbyes. She waves me off, fixated on her phone with a dreamy look while some Korean guy in a suit gives her the flirtiest grin.
Weird game.
My thoughts are still on Delilah, though.
Wondering if she’ll chase me off like my tail is on fire, those star-filled blue eyes flashing with pure prideful spite and a flash of indigo.
It almost makes me smile.
Damn, I’m screwed up.
And who else should I see when I step out of the station but New York herself, her Kia cruising down the street with boxes piled so high in the back I’m sure she can’t see out the rearview mirror.
It’s worse than before.
Looks like a hell of a lot more than just the flimsy stack of moving boxes she showed up with.
I ought to pull her over and give her a friendly warning about that.
Instead, I slip into my cruiser and pull out after her.
There are only a few cars between us, a couple soccer moms in almost identical RAV4s—one in misty sea green, one in misty sea blue—passing by with their back seats full of kids.
I’m probably being goddamned obvious about following her, but maybe the soccer moms are blocking her view—or maybe she hasn’t caught sight of me past those boxes, despite the tanned, tattooed arm I see leaning out of the open driver’s side window as she angles her head out to squint at the side mirror like that’s going to make up for it.
That how they drive where you’re from, New York? I wonder.
Once we hit the town square, the soccer moms peel off to the left along the roundabout, while I hang a right and stop behind Delilah just as she parks in front of The Rookery. She’s already climbing out by the time I cut the brakes and open the door, pulling the back hatch of her Kia Sportage open.
And unleashing a total avalanche.
Fuck!
Yelping, she covers her head as several big boxes topple over on her. Cursing up a blue streak, I launch myself out of my car and push her aside with my shoulder, slamming my back against the wall of cardboard and catching it with my shoulders.
I get bonked in the back of the head with a sharp corner for my trouble, but luckily whatever’s in it doesn’t hurt.
Much.
Delilah stumbled to one side, her swirl of dark hair lashing around her. Now she straightens up, just blinking at me.
She looks at me first before she looks back at my patrol car, her expression red with one question.
Where the hell did you come from?
“Um,” she fumbles awkwardly. “You okay?”
“Not gonna have 'falling box' on my death certificate,” I say. “But if you could straighten this mess right out, please, ma’am. I’m not cut out to be Atlas.”
There’s a suspicious little twitch to her lips. Like she wants to laugh but she won’t give me the satisfaction.
She does hurry to reach around me, rebalancing the boxes, standing up on her toes to shove them back as far as she can until the weight eases off me.
This close, it’s impossible not to notice how tiny she is.
It’s easy to forget. Her bold personality takes up a lot of space, daring you to find her small and frail, but in reality she’s just a kitten—more legs than anything.
Legs and the kind of round, curving hips that could fit just right in a man’s hands.
My hard-on loves the image.
She’s almost pressed against me, wedged in tight.
Fuck, I can feel her warmth.
Under that hard exterior, she radiates a soft heat, making my skin prickle as I watch how the dragon coiling over her shoulder stretches with each motion, the way she sinks her teeth into her lower lip in focus. It highlights that perfect round little bud where the bow of her smile meets in the middle.
And goddamn, does she smell good today.
Something fruity, sweet and light—pear, I think, and a touch of something floral. This heated scent that’s all insufferable woman.
The way it hits me nearly knocks my legs out from under me, my knees going weak just as my gut tightens.
What the fuck?
Now is not the time.
Not when she’s either a potential suspect or a potential stalker victim, or worse.
Dammit, man.
Screw your fucking head back on.
My head’s listening.
My cock sure as hell ain’t.
It’s a small relief when she steps back, giving me an odd look before murmuring, “Should be safe to let go now.”