“Jesus, Sylvie, the slow and roll doesn’t work. A stop sign is put up for a reason.”
I cocked my head to the side and narrowed my eyes. “When did you get a stick planted up your ass?”
He cocked his head to the side and regarded me closely. “We talkin’ about our pasts now?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“Okay, I’ll stop at stop signs,” I gave in.
“And you won’t turn on red if there’s a sign that says you can’t turn on red,” he kept pushing.
He so totally followed me.
Often.
Shit.
My stare turned to a glare, I bit off a huge chunk of buttery, marmalade coated toast and said sharply through it, “Fine.”
“Speed limit, as in, you’ll go the.”
I chewed, swallowed and asked through slitted eyes, “Jesus, are you a Grandpa?”
“Daughter’s twelve, son’s ten so no, not yet, thank fuck.”
I didn’t even blink. It cost me but I didn’t even blink.
Fuck, he had kids.
Fuck, that killed.
“Ten miles over,” I offered.
“Five miles,” he countered.
“Seven.”
He grinned and I didn’t blink again but that killed too. With me, he used to grin a lot, smile a lot, laugh a lot. Even so, each one was precious. He’d been beautiful. All of those transformed his features so he was magnificent.
Age and scars hadn’t changed that. Not even a little bit. He still had great, even, strong white teeth. Fantastic lips. Strong, expressive features.
Magnificent.
“Deal,” he grunted and moved to my girl.
I moved to her too and juggled my breakfast (even though it was past noon) in order to get in. With the coffee between my thighs and the toast between my teeth, I started her up and pulled out maybe a hair faster than was needed.
That said, that was how I usually pulled out.
“Jesus,” Creed muttered.
I bit back a smile, changed gears, shot forward on a screech of tires then took a bite out of my toast and drove one handed.
“Right, catch me up,” I ordered.
“You first,” he replied.
I glanced to the side.
Shit, Tucker Creed was sitting beside me in my car.
Shit!
I buried that and asked, “Me first, what?”
“You first. I’m ride-along, maybe it would be good to know what I’m ridin’ into.”
“Hit The Retreat. Check in at the office. If there’s time, check in on Serena. After that, Knight,” I told him.
“You still on The Retreat job?” he asked, exposing just how much he’d looked into me which meant just how often he’d followed me.
I’d never tagged a tail.
Damn.
“Man, I’m always on The Retreat job,” I informed him. “Every third asshole who cheats on his wife takes his bitch to The Retreat. My ass is in the parking lot there so often, management suggested they paint my name in a parking spot so it’ll be reserved.”
“Not good for business, a PI’s name in a parking spot,” Creed muttered.
“That’s why I declined. That’s me, looking out for the local adult resort.”
I heard his chuckle and it was different than I remembered too. Not just deep and smooth, the rough was in it. It made it sexier. A lot fucking sexier.
Shit.
“You ever been there?” he asked.
“Where?” I asked back.
“The Retreat,” he answered.
“Partner, were you talking in your sleep thirty seconds ago?”
“I meant as a client, not an investigator.”
Oh yeah, I had. Rubber mattresses. Fake silk sheets. Velvet comforters. Mirrors on the ceiling. Hot tubs in every room. “Environment chambers” where you could fuck in a gentle rain, breeze or both. Swings. Love machines. Steam rooms. Twelve channels of porn. Rooms available at matinee rates.
I’d so totally been there.
“So we are talking about our pasts?” I asked and he was silent. “Advice,” I went on. “You feel like an adventure, call the top in the environment chamber. Seems like it’d be awesome but that water hitting your face all the time is distracting.”
That got more silence, which worked for me because it meant he shut up.
It stopped working for me when it went on a long time. He had a month of a possible hostile takeover of Knight’s business to catch me up on and he couldn’t do it in sign language when my eyes were on the road. This was because I couldn’t see his hands and I didn’t know sign language.
I glanced his way again, mouth open to say something then I glanced straight ahead and shut my mouth.
I did this because his stubbled jaw was tight and his head was turned slightly to look out the side window.
Unhappy thoughts. Unhappy thoughts I did not give one shit about.