Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
No, I’ve never been a slob—too much hard ass Army discipline for that—but she’s made this place shine as bright as her own smile.
Not only is the house white-glove-inspection clean, she’s left flowers in vases she picked up from Grace, pillows on the furniture, and new rugs on the floor.
This place looks more like a home versus the spartan, under-construction cave it’s resembled for the past year.
Go ahead and laugh at my sentimental ass.
I don’t care.
If there’s any man around who claims he doesn’t appreciate a woman’s touch, he’s a stubborn damn liar.
Tory’s spell is stronger now than it was years ago. Probably the same weird sign of the Peach she put me under years ago, when she fell face-first in a pie, and I got my first little taste of her wiping it off her cheek.
Oh, I’ve tried running like hell, trying to live my own life, trying to forget her and this silly little town.
I remember one night in Afghanistan, halfway through my deployment, I started penning her a letter. I’d looked her up, still had her address in Forest Glen and everything.
I can still remember the first line I’d scratched out ten times before settling on something simple:
Dear Peach,
It’s been too long. Do you ever think about that crap I said a couple years ago to cheer you up? How I promised you “some dude” would be ecstatic to have you? That day you were sticky from that disaster pie, all teary eyed and hopeless? Because...I do. And I wish I’d had the balls to admit I was “some dude.”
Yeah. When I said simple, I meant dumb as dirt.
I’ll never win any writerly awards.
Of course, I also remembered she was nineteen, barely out of high school. Hardly a good time for me to be sending her the world’s lamest marriage proposal.
Still, that’s how you know I’d be lying if I ever said I’d moved on from my best friend during all of those years apart.
That’s also the big fat liar ass I’ll become if I think for one second I can live without her laugh, her sparkling blue eyes, the sultry nights I wish would last forever.
No matter where I’ve been, who I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, Tory’s always been there.
Now more than ever since I’m staring down the barrel of actually losing her, if Pickett doesn’t terminate my life first.
When I look up, there’s a big furry shape bearing down on me.
I jump.
Owl bumps my hand with his big head.
“Thanks, dude,” I snort, roughing up his fur with a scratch that makes his tail wag. “You’re right. No use in dwelling on things that won’t get fixed tonight. She’ll come around.”
He lets out a low whine that sounds exactly like he knows what’s on my mind.
Smiling, I walk to the back door and let him out. He only takes a minute to empty his bladder and then returns.
Locking the door, I double-check the front and the garage locks before I head upstairs, not looking forward to lying in my bed alone.
If this is my fate after tonight, someday I’ll be thankful for the time we had together, sharing the same sheets.
Her door’s closed tight as a drum. I get it.
Owl plods over and drops down in front of her room, and I have to force my feet to walk by. I shut the door and plop down on the bed, fully dressed, knowing I’m not gonna sleep a wink tonight.
I have no idea how long I lay there, not even thinking, when my phone vibrates.
Looks like an unknown number. Could be spam, but it’s after midnight, so I answer.
“Yeah?”
“Quinn Faulkner,” a familiar voice snaps off crisply. “Forgive my lateness—it’s incredible what family life does to a man—but this is urgent.”
“James?” I say loudly, sitting up. I was beginning to think he’d forgotten my dilemma in the thousand other things a married man working for the premier security firm out west has to do. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes, Faulkner. Something’s been terribly wrong for too long, and I’m scolding myself that it took this long to tie up loose ends.” His words rush out, each one ringing with the same sharp coldness that made James Nobel an incredible Special Agent and a better elite security specialist now.
The harshness of his tone has me standing, stiff as a board.
“Have you heard from your contacts in Oklahoma? Official channels?” James demands.
The supervisor of the police unit I’d been assigned to work with down there, Ted Goode, is who I’d been communicating with about Pickett. I haven’t asked for anything more than public knowledge, following the rule of law to the letter for former agents.
“Not for several weeks,” I tell him. “Why?”
“I have reason to believe you’re in grave danger, Faulk.”
My breath sticks in my lungs.
“Bat Pickett got released from prison today?” The way my gut churns answers before I even ask the question.