“There,” Archer rumbles his agreement. “Ten minutes. I promise.”
“Good.” And since I’m not done pouting, I lower my voice, “I love you.”
He exhales a laughing breath while, at the same time, he starts his car. “Love you too. Be good, don’t kill the mayor, say nice things.”
“I literally can’t promiseanyof those things. But I promise to be super mad if you leave me hanging a single second longer than necessary. Scoot-scoot, Detective. I’m watching the clock.”
“Yeah.” Ifeelthe smile in his words, and picture in my mind the way he drags the phone from his ear. Before he disconnects the line, I catch Detective Banks’ “Stop making personal calls while we’re working, fuckface.”
And then he’s gone.
“Everything good, Doctor Mayet?”
Dread settles low in my belly now that I’m here…alone… so as I bring my gaze across to the mayor’s closed front door, I gulp and cling to the icy chill of the wine bottle settled against my ribs. “Are you dating someone, Mr. Harrison?”
“Am I—” And just like that, I fist my dread and lob it straight into someone else’s hands. “I-I’m sorry, what?”
Grinning, I peel my eyes away from the house and stop on his horrified expression. “You’re about my age, I think.” I make a point of dropping my gaze. “No wedding ring. Though I don’t wear mine on my hand either, so the absence of one is hardly indicative of your marital status.”
He takes a wary step back. “This line of questioning is inappropriate, Doctor Mayet.”
Why? We’re pals, aren’t we?“Youinsiston hanging around, Mr. Harrison. Your employment, your home, in fact, your family, are all back in New York. Yet, here you are, driving me places long after standard business hours have ended when I literally could’ve walked.” And since it’s all so ridiculous, I gesture to the house we came from.I can see the roof!“If you refuse to leave, even after I’ve given you permission to do so, then I’d like to know more about you. So?” I flash a wide smile. “Married? Kids? Divorces?”
“Chief Mayet?”
“Argh!” I startle at Justin’s barking tone and spin toward his stomping footsteps on the ornate stone staircase leading to his front door. “Jesus! You scared me.”
“I’d like to offer you the benefit of the doubt, Chief. For all I know, the conversations you hold in my driveway could be extremely important.”
“Yes, it?—”
“But I know you better, which means history and common sense assure me this was nothing more than your unwillingness to come inside my home.”
Right you are, Watson!
“Let’s go.” He stands in a three-piece suit, shaded by the house as the sun goes down behind it. Setting his hands in his pockets and raising a single, challenging brow, he summons me with a look he’s perfected over thirty-ish years as a dad to daughters. “It’s hot out here, and procrastinating in a man’s driveway is rude.”
“Not bringing wine is rude,” I grumble. Sparing a pithy look for Harrison, I trudge toward the house and try not to looktoomuch like an overindulged child with each step. “Not turning up on time is rude. Declining the invitation in the first place is rude.” I stomp up each concrete step, smarting my knees, but finding small relief in the icy air conditioning pumping from inside the house. Reaching the top, I extend my wine-holding hand and absolutelydo notlean forward for a weird huggy-kissy greeting.That’s probably rude, too.“Do you wanna know whatIconsider rude, Mayor?”
“I’m certain you’ll tell me, regardless of my answer.” He takes the bottle and scoops his free hand around my arm. Leading me into the house, he closes the door behind us and stops… releases me… swallows. “Ah… welcome to my home, Chief.”
“I think it’s rude to insist someone leave their home for the evening when all theyreallywant to do is climb into their jammies and binge-watch something dumb on the TV.” I study the front entryway, the elegant staircase that leads up, and the doors on either side of where we stand. One leads to his home office, I believe. The other, to the family spaces. “And thank you.” Like him, I’m both cranky and nervous. Short-tempered and infuriatingly awkward. “Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.” I press my hand to my belly and look everywhere but into his eyes. “I’m starving. Is, uh…”Jen? Soph? Somebody? Anybody?“Am I the first to arrive?”
Please God, say it ain’t so.
“You are.”
Dammit!
“But we still have a minute or two until seven, so no one is technically late yet. Come on.” He sets his fingers on the back of my arm and leads methrough to the living room, where a massive fireplace takes up one wall,unused tonight,and atop the mantle, dozens of framed photographs that boast a happy family.
Beyond happy. They’reblissful.
A large L-shaped couch takes up three-quarters of the room, and though I know Justin Lawrence is an independently wealthy man and could afford a sleeker, sexier couch, I guess he prioritized comfort and cushions and the sinking-in-to-the-frame kind of pleasure over aesthetics.
Honestly, I’d choose the same.
One wall is decorated with uniform black and white pictures, each frame fifteen inches wide and fifteen inches high. By my fast count, there are fifteen of them across, and perhaps twenty up and down.
