Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
I change it to: I want to see you too, but I have a lot of work and probably won’t go to Bar 44.
Even though the three moving bubbles make me aware that he’s writing something in response, I quickly add: But I need you too. There’s a vulnerability I don’t like in my words, so I lighten it by adding a joke: Come to my place? Make it a quickie?
I can’t explain why I feel sick to my stomach over it. Or why unease spreads through me until he responds, It’s a date.
Delilah
“I heard you might be leaving town for a while.” My voice carries a purr to it as the bottle of beer hits the high-top table. It’s nearly 2:00 a.m. and the bar’s clearing out.
A week of normalcy does wonders. No one’s brought up the article and as far as I’m concerned, it never existed.
“Bad news travels fast, doesn’t it?” Cody’s formerly charming expression dims under the bar lights. Office, trial, Bar 44, and bed with Cody. Every day on repeat.
“I thought you were going home?”
“I am,” he answers, tipping back his drink.
“Going home is bad for you?” The disbelief in my voice makes me feel like a hypocrite and Cody’s amused expression displays the sentiment.
“I don’t really have a home anymore. And I never liked that town to begin with.”
There’s something sobering I didn’t know about Cody. It’s easy to get along with the man, easier to get in bed with him. But getting information out of him is something far more difficult. I consult my wineglass, giving him a moment before questioning more. “Your parents?”
“They passed when I was younger. I went to live with my uncle who never wanted kids and he has dementia now.” He shrugs, but nothing he said is casual in the least.
“Sorry to hear that,” I respond apologetically and brush my thigh against his, leaning closer to him even though I know the bar is hardly packed.
“I hate his dementia. Hate going to see him even if I love the man. He was more like a friend than a father. And now…”
“He doesn’t remember you?” The question tumbles out of me with pain and it’s relieved when he shakes his head and answers, “He remembers me. He knows who I am most of the time.
“It’s just … he asks about things that happened before. He forgets about my parents passing. He thinks I’m my father sometimes. And then others he remembers. It’s hard to tell what reality he’s in and what I’m going to get when I visit him.”
It’s quiet for a moment and I want to tell him I’m sorry again but it seems not good enough. They’re just words and I struggle to find something more than just an apology.
“He used to ask about cases. I liked that better.”
“Yeah, it’s easy to talk about work,” I’m quick to agree with him, nodding my head even and offering a gentle smile. “If you need to vent about anything, I’m always here.”
His mood shifts back to easy when he smiles and tells me, “I’m not leaving for a week, though.”
The way he raises his brow makes me huff a short laugh and say, “I guess I’ll just have to put up with you for a little while more then.”
As I joke with him, he brushes the back of his knuckles against mine and the heat unfolds inside of me.
There’s not a lot that makes me melt, but I swear he does.
“It’s easy to hide in work. Even easier to hide under the sheets and get lost, forgetting who we are and what we do,” Cody admits, speaking lowly, like it’s a secret.
“Why do we do this?” I don’t know why the question leaves me. It’s not with conscious consent. I suppose it’s the thought that neither of us likes to go home. We don’t like to talk about anything but work. Why do we put ourselves through this? Why do we prefer to meddle in lives that are long gone and stay buried there when there’s so much more to life than this?
Walsh’s gaze slips lower than it should, landing between my breasts as he questions, “Do what?” The edge of the bottle rests against his bottom lip for a moment too long, forcing me to pay too much attention to his expert lips.
“Do this job,” I answer firmly and holding an edge that doesn’t last. With my teeth sinking into my bottom lip, I return his hungry eyes with a heat in my own.
We should stop this conversation in public. I should stop leaning so close to him.
We’ve gotten too comfortable and even when I glance around the place, noting that no one’s watching and no one cares, I know damn well we shouldn’t be reckless. Especially after that article and the insinuation made. Even if I’ve nailed four trials in a row, I don’t need the judgment affecting my job.