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Cap chuckled.
I was blown away after we exited that gate, not only that he’d landed the phantom open visitor spot, but that he didn’t lead me to some big truck or something like a Charger, both of which I liked in a guy.
Nope.
He led me to a sleek, granite-colored Porsche Panamera.
Holy cripes!
He helped me in my side, closed the door, rounded the car and angled into his side.
While he did all that, I put on my sunglasses and pulled out my compact to fix my lip gloss.
He was turning the thingie to start her up when I remarked, “I take it being a private investigator earns some bank.”
“Don’t know,” he replied, wrapping his arm around my seat to look behind us to reverse out. “But you don’t do too badly as a member of the Nightingale Investigations crew.”
I had a feeling his definition of not doing too badly and mine were madly skewed.
For instance, I didn’t think I did too badly, and I owned a car that they’d stopped making years ago, and I thought it was cute and was glad I had it.
His car purred to the exit of the complex with an arrogant demonstration of expensive, cutting-edge technology and power.
My clitoris didn’t like that as much as his hair, or his kiss, but it was close (to the hair, nothing came close to that kiss).
He pulled onto Seventh asking, “How was your day?”
Delectable damage fixed, I dropped my gloss and compact in my purse and answered, “Found out first thing our landlord sold to some corporation, and starting Monday”—yes, Bill and Zach got the scoop, and I got an email, the painting was to begin at seven a.m. sharp on Monday, along with the replacement of the fencing and gates, and installation of the solar panels, apparently Dreamweaver Inc. wasn’t messing around—“they’re doing major upgrades from pool to parking lot to security gates to painting to a compost bin, without raising rents.”
“No shit?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“You can say that again. Then, Scott and Louise, Luna’s parents, who have unofficially adopted me, stopped in at SC to invite us to an intervention. Because apparently Dream, you met her yesterday, she’s kids-in-tow-sign-of-the-cross woman and Luna’s sister, is pregnant again. That’s three kids in less than four years by three different guys who are not in those kids’ lives, including not paying support. And Dream has no job. Which was a mystery, how they got on, partially solved today when Scott shared how much she owed them, and Luna admitted she’d loaned her sis not a small amount of cash. So with baby three on the way, shit’s got to give.”
“Not good,” he said.
“You can say that again too. And in the midst of this, my dad texted, springing on me he’s coming for a visit next week, and I haven’t seen him in eight years.”
After I said that, the interior of the car was completely silent in a way I’d never felt. In a way I didn’t know silence could feel. In fact, I didn’t know silence couldhavea feel, but the oppressive, sweltering feel of the silence from Cap was overwhelming me.
I looked at him just in time to see a muscle jump under his beard.
“Cap?” I called cautiously.
“Not cool,” he grunted.
Wonderful.
We were here.
Already.
“How much do you know about me?”
“I pulled back,” he shared. “I know what you think I’d know, but when I found that out, I stopped. The rest is yours to give me. But I also know a father who hasn’t seen his daughter in eight years showing in town without much warning is whacked.”
