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I gave him a friendly shove. "What's with you and the Spanish today?"
"It's thechica.She makes me feel all hot and bothered inside."
I stifled a laugh. "That's the most poetic I've seen you be."
But he was right. I wondered ... but would Grizzly be okay with it? Because I knew Thunder and me. We'd never consider what both of us were unless he went with it too.
And we could already tell he was in it.
Deep.
11
Juniper
Iwas momentarily distracted by my phone buzzing on the way to the station. It was Harold's family lawyer.
Another name in the ever-growing list of people who made me want togit while the gettin' was good.
I answered anyway.
"Ms. Davis," he said, his voice like a cat's purr caught in a breeze, "you have been avoiding my calls."
Wow. No shit, Sherlock.
"I'm sorry," I replied, digging my nails into the skin of my free palm. "I still haven't made up my mind."
"Anyone in your place would consider themselves fortunate."
"And I'm not just anyone," I barked before trying to tone it down a notch. It wasn't his fault he needed to sort things out.
Men like Harold came with a long list of relatives whose interest grew in exponential amounts relative to his disappearance, which was natural because now they didn't have to deal with the mess of his emotions or care for him. All they had to do was take his money by claiming their rights.
Which was what the situation had boiled down to. But no matter what, Icouldnot go in and just start ruling the place like I was Marie fuckin’ Antoinette. I was already in deep shit with my bank. I needed to sort a lot of things out before I could claim to be an heiress to a fortune that was never mine in the first place.
"Look, I'm sorry," I finally said, my tone quickening as the cab turned the bend to the station. "I know you have to initiate legal proceedings and filings, and God knows what else. I'm trying to expedite this."
"Thank you," he replied, sounding slightly mollified. "If you relinquish your claims, I will need to go through his next of kin."
"I understand. I'll—I have to go, but I promise I'll get on this as soon as I can."
Stepping out, I crept inside feeling like an innocent culprit. That would be right up there in the top ten list of the world's stupidest oxymorons.
The sound of my footsteps echoed loudly off the linoleum floor. Detective Jameson was already waiting for me, two cups of stale, cold coffee in his burly hands.
I shook my head when he extended me a cup. I wasn't here to be his friend. And I wasn't falling for the good cop, bad cop deal.
As he walked inside, his steps curiously in rhythm with another man’s—this one looked weathered down, like he'd survived one too many hurricanes.
"Pleasure, Ms. Davis," he said, his smile cold and brief and never reaching his irises. "I'm the Precinct Commander, Charles Walker. Most people here know me as Chuck."
He sounded most unlike a Chuck. I nodded, deciding not to return his ghost of a smile.
Nothing further was said until we entered the interrogation room.
I was so done. I didn't want to spend my evenings in a police station, sitting in a cold room with two snake-eyed men staring me down.
The harsh gray of the walls did nothing to help my already jarred nerves. My eyes hurt from the unsettling bright light.
