Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“I’d rather stay on the couch,” he added when I said nothing. “Closer to the door if there is trouble.”
“And if there’s trouble?” I asked, stomach clenching a bit. And, I swear, as illogical as it was, I swear the damn cut on my arm burned too.
“You lock your bedroom door, go into your bathroom, lock that door as well, then climb into that massive-ass tub of yours.”
“While you…” I prompted.
“Handle it,” he said, and there was something in his eyes, in his tone of voice, that told me he was more than capable of doing just that.
“Do you have a gun?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Should I have a gun?”
“Honey, I can’t answer that question for you,” he said, shaking his head. And I did not get a little flutter at the endearment. It was the wine, damnit. That was all. “Having a gun or not is a personal decision based on a lot of factors. Like your personal feelings on them, your knowledge on how to use and safely store them, and whether or not you think that, in the worst-case scenario, you could actually point one at a fellow human being and pull the trigger, being fully aware that you could remove them from the world.”
Well, that was a little… intense. But fair.
“I once bashed a man’s teeth out with a tire iron when he tried to assault me instead of help me change my tire like he claimed he was doing.”
“Good for you,” he said, giving me a small smile.
I never told anyone that story.
It was part of my old life.
And in my new life, you didn’t bash men’s teeth in with tire irons, no matter how much they had it coming. That was what security was for. What never changing your own damn tire because you had people to do that was for.
People in my current world viewed violence as base and low class, even if it was in self-defense.
So I just kept those types of tales to myself.
“I think I could do it. But it would take some research and practice before I felt comfortable with it.”
“It can all be part of the package,” Brock offered, shrugging. “If you want to go to the range to try it out, just let me know.”
“How is that part of the package?” I asked. “That doesn’t have anything to do with private investigation.”
“No,” he agreed. “But we are pretty full-service for our clients.”
I’d seen the paperwork from the contract that Cam signed. And, yeah, for the fees they were charging, I guess they’d better be full-service.
“Okay. Well, depending on how long this goes on, I might want to pencil that in.”
“Sounds good,” he said, nodding.
“Can I at least get you pillows and blankets?” I asked, waving toward the couch that I bought because it was pretty, not because I anticipated anyone sleeping on it. And pretty couches were not comfortable couches.
“That I can agree to,” he said, nodding.
Glad to have an excuse to leave the room, I went into the guest room to grab some pillows, blankets, and pillowcases.
Why I went into my own room to grab my perfume and spritz the pillows, yeah, that was completely beyond me. I was going to go ahead and call it muscle memory, since I always sprayed my own pillows before I slipped the cases on. Any other reason—like wanting him to smell me on them–would be borderline insane.
No matter how gorgeous he was.
“Is two pillows enough?” I asked as I walked back out with everything, finding him watching the darkened city out the windows that surrounded my apartment.
“Sweetheart, I’ve slept in mud puddles in pouring rainstorms,” he told me with a sweet smile. “Two of your very plush-looking pillows is more than enough.”
“I’m not used to having anyone else here,” I admitted to him as I set everything on the couch, figuring he would want to make things up himself.
“I can tell,” he said. And the worry must have been clear on my face because he shook his head at me. “I’m not trying to be offensive. You just don’t seem to know what to do with yourself in your own home. Which is usually how people act when they’re accustomed to being alone. That’s all.”
That was fair.
I’d spent several hours just walking room to room, putting random things away, fussing, not quite sure what I was supposed to be doing. It was going to feel extra strange to have someone sleeping on my couch.
Because while I did have a guest room, no one had ever stayed in it. Not even Cam. When we were working late. Or when we’d had too much wine. That was sort of the perk to living in the city, wasn’t it? Everything was a short cab ride away. No one had to stay because they were tired or drunk.