Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
And as we heard the music begin I got a text from Dane that said that crashing weddings was rude.
I would murder my brother when he came over the following day.
It was a very long ceremony. I nodded off a couple of times and was, as usual, exceedingly thankful for my husband’s broad shoulders that were always there for leaning on. When he put his arm around me, I snuggled up against him, put my hand on his thigh, and stayed awake only because Sam was stroking my hair and I was soaking up every drop of his attention. It was really nice.
Getting people out was a monumental undertaking, and I was thrilled that Sam had parked us two blocks away and not attempted to go anywhere near the parking structure. At The Drake Hotel, he used his law enforcement credentials to get his car on the first level. Interesting fact: Sam was not allowed to ever valet park his car, because if the car was stolen, things about marshal business could be accessed.
“Is that true?” I asked him on the way from the parking structure to the hotel entrance.
“Probably not,” he assured me, holding my hand. “But the marshal service frowns on anyone in a supervisory capacity doing the valet thing.”
“Not that you care,” I teased him.
“Not that I care,” he repeated, grinning at me, “because, as you know, I hate valet parking. I don’t think anyone should be driving your car, ever, that you don’t explicitly know. I mean, they can look at your registration and call whoever and say, ‘they’re here, go rob their place.’ It’s insane.”
“And don’t get you started on keys and making impressions of them.”
“And don’t get me started on keys and making impressions of them,” he repeated, chuckling that time. “It’s a 20/20 episode just waiting to happen.”
I was laughing as he held the door open for me and we walked through into the main part of the hotel. It was, as always, beautiful inside. I’d been to many events at The Drake over the years, and it never failed to impress.
We had to stand in line at the door to go through security, and Sam was fussing with the collar of his tux, and the bow tie, when I told him to stop fidgeting.
“I always feel like I’m being strangled to death with this thing.”
“It’s all in your mind,” I explained to him, admiring the skin at his throat, wanting to plant a kiss there suddenly.
He went still. “What’s with the face?”
“Sorry?”
Filthy chuckle from him then. “This stupid suit is turning you on.”
“No, it’s not the––”
“You have a tux kink, and I have no issue with this,” he said, kissing my temple. “I bet you had it bad for James Bond, didn’t you?” He waggled his eyebrows when he asked.
“Not at all,” I murmured, leaning into him, wrapping my arms around his waist as he draped an arm around my shoulders and tucked me in close. “I am, however, terribly turned on by you in a tux.”
“How turned on?”
“And some of it is your ridiculous fussing with the tie.”
“How turned on?” he asked again, because clearly, that was the important part.
I laughed softly and leaned away as we reached the front of the line. The guy looked up, and Sam reached for the breast pocket of his tux.
“That’s not necessary, Chief Deputy,” he said, and gestured for us to step to the table with all the cards of where you were sitting.
The young woman standing there asked for Sam’s name and was concerned when she couldn’t find him.
“It’s probably under Kenwood,” I mentioned to her.
She was so relieved.
“They didn’t update the list that we were filling in,” I told her.
“Thank you,” she rasped like it was a big deal, even reaching out to grip my bicep.
It was odd, but I patted her hand, and then another woman walked us to our table. We were the first ones there, thanks to Sam’s good parking and fast driving.
“It’s an open bar,” the hostess informed us, “and there is a station in every corner of the room. The bride requests that you stay in your area.”
“Gotcha,” I told her, and as soon as she left, Sam did a slow pan to me.
“I’m starting to feel, from the panic of the poor girl finding my name and the one that just left, that perhaps the bride has instilled some fear in these people.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But then––”
“You’re right,” he agreed, using our shorthand developed over years to follow where I was going with my question. Because the list hadn’t been updated but the guy at the front door knew Sam? How did that work?
And yes, over the years, people in Chicago had come to know Sam’s face. Some people. If you religiously watched the news, you would know that he was with the marshals service, even if you weren’t sure where he was in that hierarchy. Once Sam put Eli Kohn in place, he didn’t have to talk to the press anymore, and he loved that. I mean, when it was something big, he still had to. When the serial killer, Craig Hartley, was killed, that was big news. Bigger news, of course, because there was no body for anyone to autopsy and no brain to dissect. So when things like that happened or the raid when they found all the missing kids, Sam still stepped up under the lights and gave a statement. But everyone, I was certain, across the board, preferred to have Eli at the podium. Sam answered questions like a robot. Like an agitated robot. Yes. No. I’m not aware of any mitigating factors, no. I watched his press conferences, saw the scowl, heard him use the voice he used at the dentist, and thought—he could be charming the pants off those reporters if he wanted to. Eli understood how the game was played. He joked and laughed, learned names, remembered birthdays, but mostly, he gave long, insightful answers, and his voice dripped with sincerity and sex appeal. My husband was funny, charming, and very smart. If he wanted to win people over, he could. The issue was, he so seldom tried with anyone. He’d much rather skip the chatting and get right to the heart of the matter. That was most quickly done with threats of incarceration. I told him often, let more people see your good side. Normally he growled in response.