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“Okay.” She chews her bottom lip for a beat, then goes up on her toes and kisses me on the cheek. “Bye, Myles.”
My chest rumbles.
And then she steps down off my boots and climbs into the driver’s side. The instructor hands her forgotten sandals through the passenger side and Jude passes her the car keys from the backseat. With one more glance at me through the window, she pulls out and leaves.
I’m no longer touching her. And I damn well like touching her, which might be why I reach into my back pocket to stroke the lace of her red panties. Just to have some sort of contact—
They’re gone.
I start, checking the other pocket. Not there, either.
Taylor stole back her hookup panties. Snuck them right out of my pocket. How did she know they were there in the first place? And what does it mean that she took them back?
Who I wear them for is none of your business.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, popping an antacid into my mouth.
With a stomach full of broken glass, I return to the motel, determined to go over my case notes and plan my next moves. Not think about shit like red lace panties and women who cry over children being nice to each other.
Do your job and go home.
You’ll forget her eventually.
Like in a hundred years or so.
Maybe.
Not even a little bit.
Fuck.
Chapter 11
Taylor
From the corner of my eye, I watch Myles’s motorcycle drive past the house for the second time in an hour. The sky is beginning to darken, the smell of Saturday barbeques is in the air. Some cloud cover has drifted in, as it is wont to do on the Massachusetts coastline. There is a chance of rain, as usual, but it isn’t stopping vacationers from enjoying the ocean, their flower-laden wraparound porches and big, frosty pitchers of margaritas or cans of beer. The sound of laughing children and conversing adults drifts up from the beach on the snatches of music, breezing in through the open windows of the rental house.
I’m in the kitchen chopping up radishes. Onions are pickling in a bowl beside the sink.
Myles doesn’t know what he’s missing. I make insane tacos.
What is the big deal about coming to dinner, anyway? It’s just food.
My knife pauses in the act of cutting a radish sliver.
What happened last night shouldn’t happen again, all right? I’m responsible for letting it get that far and I’m sorry. But I just want to solve this case and get back to hunting bounties. There’s no room for a diversion.
I’m distracting him. That’s why he won’t come eat my delicious taco.
Tacos. Plural.
I’ve had some time to reflect since we came back from the disastrous snorkeling outing. I took a really long bath and walked on the beach while Jude read a Sedaris book in the backyard hammock. And I’m beginning to develop a suspicion. When I told Myles this relationship was temporary and I wouldn’t tangle him up in strings, he clearly didn’t believe me.
Why would he?
I invited him to dinner. I told him about my childhood. I cried in front of him.
For godsakes, Taylor. The least I can do is act like hookup material. Of course he keeps retreating. He’s being…decent. Isn’t he? He’s trying to do the right thing by keeping me at arm’s length. Not only for the good of his investigation, but because he obviously doesn’t believe I can have a totally guilt-free, uncomplicated fling.
And maybe, just maybe…he’s right.
I don’t know what happened this morning, but when he carried Jude to the car, I might have felt a weird flop in my chest. A very noticeable one. That flop sent reverberations all the way down to my toes and I…well. I did what any red-blooded woman would do when she experiences a very distinct chest flop.
I came straight home and Googled him.
Detective resigns after kidnapping case misfire.
When I saw the headline, I almost closed the browser tab. What kept me scrolling was the picture of Myles. Clean-shaven with dark, close-cropped hair, coming down the steps of a government building in a suit. All of his distinct lines were there. The brawn of his shoulders and the brittle irritation of his jaw. But he looked so different. Younger, less road weary.
I already knew the beginning of the story. Myles was working the Christopher Bunton case. But the three-year-old article helped fill in the blanks. He focused the investigation on the wrong suspect. A neighbor with a record of assault. A man with no alibi. A loner. But it had turned out to be the stepfather, a man heavily involved in the investigation and respected in the community who also wanted more freedom. Less of a financial strain on his bank account. He’d conspired with his sister to take Christopher across state lines and sell him to a couple he’d found on the internet who were willing to pay for an under-the-table adoption. By the time the investigation shifted, Christopher had been living in his new home for a month. In bad conditions. Not being fed properly. Sharing a room with four other children. Sent out every day to beg on the street and bring home what he earned.
