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Shit. I forgot about our date. “Yeah, about that… something happened today, and I think I need to just chill tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s hard to explain. Can we raincheck?”
There’s a pause in his reply, and I feel like a jerk. “Yeah, of course. If you want, I can come over, and we can just hang out. Watch a movie.”
“That sounds great, but tonight’s not the night. I feel horrible.”
“Don’t, please. I just hope it’s nothing serious. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you. Again, sorry for the last-minute change of plans. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, ’kay?”
“Of course. Have a good night.” I end the call as Tate gets back in the car. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Let’s just get you home.” He doesn’t offer any more information. We get back to the hotel, and he instructs me to settle in while he takes a shower. I go to the restocked mini fridge and grab two little bottles of vodka. Finding a pen in my purse, I pop a squat on the couch and lay out all the applications on the coffee table. Tate returns and sits down next to me.
I grab a vodka and twist off the cap.
“You know I’m not drinking.”
“These are both for me.” I take one down. Not that I need to be drinking, but my nerves are shot, and this seems like the best remedy. “Okay, college counselor Tate, where do we start?”
As much as I find his ruggedness hot, I’m glad to see his easy smile back in place. “First couple pages will be general information. Name, address, school history.” I lift my pen and fill everything in, wondering how much longer my address will actually be my home.
“Hey, don’t think about it. Just fill it out for now. If anything needs to be changed, we can work it out with the registration office later.”
At his use of the word “we,” I lift my chin and gaze at him, my stomach swirling in a way I can’t describe.
“What? Do I have something on my face?”
It’s then I realize I’m staring. “Yeah. Little bit of blood splatter,” I lie.
“Shit.” He wipes his face.
“Kidding. You sure everything’s okay? I don’t want you getting in trouble for me. I can always lie and say I was the one who hit him. People have been known to underestimate me.”
That earns me a chuckle.Don’t kiss him. Don’t kiss him.“It’ll be fine. I’ll gladly take the repercussions for punching that asshole.”
And who said chivalry is dead?
“Fine, I’ll accept your gracious show of loyalty and match you by offering to let you choose what we order—so long as it’s not caviar.” That taste still burns on my tongue.
We decide on Italian because carbs go great with college applications and reality TV. I’m in a food coma on the couch when Tate’s phone rings. I sit up as he grabs it, staring at his screen. “It’s Detective Rochel,” he says, putting it on speaker.
“Evening, Tate. Is Mindy nearby?”
“She’s right here. I have you on speaker.”
“Good. I wanted to call and update you both. We found the guy.”
I gasp. “You did?”
“Well, yes and no. His name is Sheldon Mitchell. Ex-con. Did a few rounds for drug possession and small-time theft. The next step is locating him. There’s no current address on file. We have men making visits to his old stomping grounds and past employers. A guy like this doesn’t have the means to go far. Now that we know who we’re looking for, we’ll find him.”
I look over at Tate, trying to decipher whether this is good or bad news. His blank expression is in place, leaving me to mull it over for myself. Clearly good since we know who the asshole is, but bad because he’s still out there, lurking.
“How does a lowlife like this know how to deactivate a high-tech security system?” Tate asks.
