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He smiles thinly. “Well, I’ll just have to remember that the next time The Lower East Side decides to come knocking, now, won’t I?”
I just smile and look down into my drink.
“And for the record, Ms. PC,” he grunts. “Robbie doesn’t give a shit if I call him mute. Cause he’smute.”
Yeah, that’s because “Robbie” is a fucking liar and a scumbag.
We sit in silence after that—Gray Beard deep in his sports section, me in my drink and my thoughts. Hoping to God the vodka chases away, well, all of it.
The memory of his lips dragging millimeters from my skin. The lingering heat from his body—so toned and chiseled and…hard, against mine.
The filthy, whispered promises growled into my ear.
I shiver, shaking my head before I glance back at the bartender.
“Where’s the best place to get a cab around here?”
He glances up in amusement.
“Where you headed?”
As far away from here as possible.
“The airport in Bangor.”
He chuckles.
“That’s a two-hour drive.”
“Okay. So…taxis?”
He chuckles again as his head shakes.
“No taxis in Cape Harbor.”
“Does Uber—”
“Nope.”
My brow furrows. I mean I took a taxihere, when I got off the plane the other day. How the hell do you get the fuck out of this town?
“Matt Michaud could drive you. He brings folks into Bangor from time to time.”
My face brightens. “Oh yeah? That’d be great!”
He nods slowly “Ayuh. Probably run you a hundred bucks.”
It could cost a million bucks and I’d still be in that car.
“Okay, great, where can I find—”
“He’ll be free tomorrow.”
My face falls.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
