Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
He nods, freeing me to do the same. That’s why I never mentioned that Kendall went missing days earlier than her file states until only days ago. I didn’t want everything I’d said previously to be raked over with a fine-toothed comb.
“Was Blake ever brought in for questioning? Excluding the stolen car report, I can’t find anything on him in the system.”
“He was questioned.” Grayson works his jaw side to side before scrubbing at the stubble on his chin. “But since he was underage and they ruled him out as a suspect, they sealed his testimony.”
His reply makes sense, but it also doesn’t. Testimony suggests evidence. He couldn’t give testimony unless he knew something about Cameron’s abduction.
“Do you suspect that Blake had something to do with Cameron’s disappearance?”
Another delay before a brief headshake. “He was upset when he found out what had happened. His… emotions didn’t seem fake.”
Hating his downcast face, I pretend there aren’t a million theories swirling in my head when he asks if I have any more questions. My response isn’t a lie. I merely need time to process everything.
“When you have any—”
“You’ll be the first I ask,” I interrupt, aware this isn’t a case I can take to anyone else.
Grayson’s grin makes me as giddy as the scent of my favorite body wash on his skin, and then he triples the buzz by asking if I’m ready for dessert.
I perk up like a pig staring at a full trough, doubling his grin.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” He drops his eyes to the files spread across the couch. “While I get dessert, you should pack up.”
I’m shocked he’s calling it a night so early in the evening. He usually works until exhaustion forces him to rest.
I realize I have the situation wrong when he murmurs, “Your shirt wore more gravy after dinner than your plate,” as he moseys to the kitchen.
His slow pace quickens when I snatch up the water bottle, which my hand is rarely without, and hook it in his direction. His laughter rumbling out of the poky kitchen makes dessert unnecessary. It is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, and it could give any red-blooded woman a toothache.
Dessert accompanies two hours of conversation, multiple unexpected parcels of laughter, and a handful of awkward stare-offs that double the chemistry I’ve always felt tethering me to Grayson. It’s not a date—how could it be when Grayson’s participation is forced?—but it is the closest thing I’ve felt to a date in well over a decade. I’ve smiled, laughed, swooned, and pressed my thighs together more times than I can count. That’s a record—even before Kendall went missing.
Although it’s been fun and I’d be pleased for it to continue, I once again prioritize the needs of others over my own. Since I know he won’t contemplate sleep until he puts at least three hours into Cameron’s case, I need to be the bigger person.
As I stand, I say, “I know this is the pot calling the kettle black, but try to get some sleep tonight.” I turn to face Grayson as he slowly rises to his feet. He looks as disappointed as I feel that our impromptu couch session is over. Or perhaps he’s relieved? I’ve struggled to read his prompts this past week, and although it is a cheap shot, I blame my out-of-whack hormones. “You won’t fool anyone tomorrow with a first-time father-to-be ruse if you look like you’ve already cut your teeth with a newborn.”
I stop gathering the plates smeared with remnants of the dessert we shared when Grayson murmurs, “I’m not attending any of the classes tomorrow.” A lie as evident as the one I told at the start of our evening beams from his eyes when he locks them with mine. “I figured my skills would be better utilized here than on the field.”
What he meant to say is that he doesn’t trust anyone else to keep my ass planted on the couch or the bed as well as he has over the past thirty-six-plus hours.
Even though he’s babying me, I’m not peeved. I love his protective side and how well I’ve been sheltered under it since he arrived.
He follows me into the kitchen, where I place the plates into the dishwasher. “Will you have the same profiling abilities through a monitor as you would in person?”
Sparks of the man I’ve been obsessed with for over a decade shine bright when he smirks. “I have above-average stats. A monitor can prevent you from putting actions into play you’re not sure aren’t one-sided, but it doesn’t make the truth any less obvious.” I feel like he’s talking more about the many conversations we’ve had over the net than the case we’re working on.
When I remain frozen in the kitchen, too confused to move, he tracks the backs of his fingers down my cheek like he did when I cried. He is barely touching me, but my body responds as if he’s strumming my clit with his tongue. His basic touch floods my veins with lust and has me wondering if there’s more truth to women being extra horny in the last trimester of pregnancy than what I’ve read.