Page 45

He flipped the menu over. “Why?”

“To ask people what they thought of him.”

Baxter glanced up. “Slightly more interesting. Also deeply self-obsessed.”

“Yeah,” I conceded. “Probably.”

The waiter arrived then, the rest of the evening passing in a similar vein of good-natured bickering that I enjoyed far too much. We both steered clear of discussing the afternoon’s events. After we finished dessert and had no excuse left to linger, reluctance settled in my bones.

“We could go out,” I suggested as we stood. “See what Wakefield has to offer besides a prison.”

Baxter shook his head. “No. I’m tired.”

“Hotel bar for a nightcap?”

He didn’t respond verbally, but his turn toward the lifts said enough. Disappointment left a heaviness in my chest as I followed. I didn’t want to be alone. I’d only suggested it as an excuse to spend more time with him. I didn’t even care anymore that he could read my mind. Maybe he could make sense of my tangled thoughts when I looked at him, because I certainly couldn’t.

We rode the lift in silence—a charged one. Sexual tension? Something else? Don’t think about sex. Especially not sex with Baxter. Okay, so maybe I did still care if he read my thoughts. And don’t think about Napoleon? Think about Verity. Or lifts. Celebrate the lack of terrible music.

“When’s your next date with Glenn?” Baxter asked.

The question caught me off-guard. “What?”

“Glenn? The man you’re dating. The one you called for help at the cemetery.”

“I’m not… We’re not…” Hadn’t I explained that? Or hadn’t Baxter simply picked it out of my head? His mind had been elsewhere at the cemetery, though. Visiting your grave did that to a person. And I barely thought about Glenn at all. Baxter raised an eyebrow when I didn’t finish. “I told him I didn’t think it would work between us.”

“Why not?”

“Just… because.”

Baxter nodded as the lift pinged. Our rooms were on the same floor. His first, and then a long, lonely trip to the other end of the corridor for mine, where I’d watch TV shows I had no interest in until I fell asleep. Baxter wanting some alone time was completely understandable. It was more surprising that after meeting his murderer, he’d held it together so well during dinner. He needed to decompress, not socialize.

I slowed as we reached Baxter’s door, the word “goodnight” already hovering on my tongue. Instead, he shoved me gently but firmly forward. I was still struggling to work out what was going on when we reached my room.

“Door won’t open itself,” Baxter said.

I unlocked my room with the keycard. When I pushed the door open, Baxter followed me in, flicking on the light as the door clicked shut. I stared at the closed door for a moment too long, then turned back to him.

He stood in the middle of the room regarding me silently, head tipped to one side, dark curls falling softly over his brow.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” I admitted.

“You wanted to keep spending time with me.”

“Well, yes. That’s not a crime. It was that or sit alone.”

“Don’t play it down.”

“Fine. I like spending time with you. I enjoy your company.”

“You could sound happier about it,” he said, somehow sounding accusatory and amused at the same time.

This felt like a test I hadn’t revised for, my head spinning. “You said you were tired.”

“Too tired to go out. Not too tired for other things.”

“Other things?”