She needed to be completely devoted to him. She must completely let go of the life she’d left behind. She was already beautiful and intelligent—when he was finished with her, she would be perfect.
Next, he’d push her even further.
He rubbed his hands together over the fire. He couldn’t wait to continue. But he must be patient. She’d need some time to recover. To reflect on her behavior.
To realize the fruitlessness of any efforts to defy him.
To give up and give herself fully to him.
Chapter Eight
Lance skimmed through the remaining documents in Chelsea’s file. Nothing jumped out at him. He closed the file on the card table in his office and sat back, letting the information sink into his head.
Sharp walked into the room. “I made you a shake.” He handed Lance a nasty-looking green concoction.
“I will never get used to the way these look.” Lance held up the glass and stared at the thick green liquid.
After he’d been shot in the thigh and almost died last year, his recovery had been long, painful, and frustrating. He’d gone back to the police force only to quit when his leg didn’t hold up. He’d wallowed in pity at home, seeing little progress with his rehabilitation, until Sharp had convinced him to join his PI firm—and to try his organic-crunchy lifestyle. Several months after Lance had embraced his boss’s way of life, his leg was mostly healed.
He doubted it would ever be 100 percent, but he could do most of the things he enjoyed. He’d even returned to coaching the hockey team for at-risk youths he’d volunteered with when he’d been on the police force.
Now instead of heading to the bar when he was stressed, Lance downed a green protein shake and went to bed early.
He was quite the party animal.
“Luckily, these drinks taste better than they look.” Lance no longer questioned the ingredients. He’d learned his lesson and simply drank whatever his boss handed him.
To be fair, Sharp was more than his boss. After he’d been unable to find Lance’s father, he’d taken ten-year-old Lance under his wing. Over the years, Sharp had driven him to hockey practice, given him the sex talk, and taught him to drive. He was the closest thing to a father Lance had.
Sharp took the empty glass back. “Ready to head over to Tim’s house?”
Lance stood and reached for the flannel shirt he’d draped over his chair. “Yes. Want to ride along? We should get a good look at the wife’s personal space.”
“Let’s go.” Sharp fetched a jacket from his office.
Lance went to the closet and grabbed a high-capacity USB drive, then met Sharp and Morgan in the foyer.
“I’m off to see the sheriff.” She slung her giant purse over one shoulder. She’d changed into what Lance called her lawyer uniform: a fitted navy-blue suit, white silk blouse, heels, and pearls. They all went outside together, and Sharp locked up the office.
Lance thought about kissing her goodbye, but the gesture felt awkward. Their relationship felt awkward, especially in front of Sharp. Instead, Lance said, “Good luck.”
They parted on the sidewalk. Lance watched her walk away. The skirt and heels did magical things to her legs. She was all at once ladylike, professional, and unbelievably hot.
At least she was to him.
Morgan got into her minivan and drove off. Lance and Sharp settled in Lance’s Jeep.
“What’s going on between you two?” Sharp said before he’d even fastened his seat belt.
“It’s hard to quantify.” Lance started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “Her grandfather has been sick. She has her hands full, and we both know my mom is a lot to manage.”
Sharp stared over the console. “Stop overthinking. You are not going to find another woman like that one. Make time for her. Do not fuck this up.”
“That isn’t my goal.”
“You can’t possibly manage every single piece of your mother’s life forever. You’re entitled to some happiness.”
“I know.” But it didn’t feel that simple. His mother’s mental health and physical safety required a delicate balance of medication, routine, and vigilance. He’d slacked off during college, and she’d needed inpatient treatment to get back on track. Since then, he’d erred on the side of micromanaging, but that didn’t allow much room for a social life.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
Chelsea and Tim lived in a quiet subdivision. As Lance turned the Jeep onto their street, he slowed to drive around a couple pushing a baby stroller. Ten feet ahead of them, a small child pedaled a tricycle. At three o’clock in the afternoon, grade school-aged kids swarmed a play lot in the center of the cul-de-sac.