Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(89)

“I’m not exactly God’s gift to women right now. Being suspected of a felony isn’t, you know, chick catnip.”

“Chick catnip,” snickered Owen. “Man, you could sell that shit for, like, a million dollars.” He sobered up. “You’d just tell her you didn’t do it, man.”

If only that worked. A month ago, Miles would have believed it, too, but he was on the other side of one of those life lines you crossed where you never saw the world the same way again.

“If Deena didn’t believe that, why should some woman who’s never met me before in her life?”

“Because she’s not a shallow bitch?”

Owen had met Deena only a couple of times, but they’d never hit it off. Deena was too serious for Owen’s tastes, not inclined to laugh at herself or find humor in, say, the idea of chick catnip.

“Deena’s not a shallow bitch.” As hurt as Miles was, as much trouble as he was having understanding her actions, he hadn’t reached the stage of hating her—at least not yet. She had been a big part of his life for many years, and during those years she’d been sweet, affectionate, and loyal.

Although it did raise the question: If you never tested someone’s devotion, how could you possibly know how they’d behave when the chips were down? Could you call someone loyal if their loyalty was just the everyday kind of showing up?

“I don’t understand why you feel the need to defend her. What kind of despicable human being deserts her fiancé when he’s under suspicion for a crime?”

“One who believes he committed it, I guess.”

Owen looked as if he would have spat if they hadn’t been in the subway. “Or one who was already looking for a way out.”

Miles stared at an ad overhead. Are you between the ages of 18 and 38? Do you suffer from anxiety?

Yes, thought Miles. No. And then, Maybe. Just a little. Since my world got pulled out from under me like a cheap rug.

“People aren’t all like Deena,” Owen said. “You must have some friends who’ve been supportive of you.”

Miles had told exactly three people what had happened: his lawyer, Deena, and Owen. None of them had asked him if he was innocent or guilty. His lawyer had explained that, as a matter of policy, Miles was innocent in his eyes, and he didn’t want to know anything more than that. Owen—well, Owen was Owen. He had a sealed juvie record and a lifelong battle with shoplifting impulses, and if he hadn’t asked whether Miles was guilty, it was probably because he didn’t give a f*ck if he was. But Deena?

She hadn’t asked whether he was guilty, because she’d assumed he was. She’d looked at him with accusation, with blame, with betrayal in her eyes. How could you do this to me?

Miles shook his head.

“You’re telling me that out of all the people you’ve told, no one has taken your side?”

“I’m telling you I haven’t told anyone.”

“People at work?”

Miles shook his head. “It all happened so fast. Board calls me into a meeting, and blam! Suspicion of embezzlement, police involved, unpaid leave. I’m apparently lucky they didn’t fire me.”

“But surely you’ve sat down with your staff and talked about it …?”

That look on Deena’s face. As if he’d slapped her. Then the worst part. He’d drawn a deep breath, down to his toes, because who could have told him, before he’d experienced it, how much balls it would take to claim your own innocence? Who knew how much it would feel like a confession of guilt?

“I didn’t do it,” he’d told her.

There had been a split second after the words came out of his mouth when he’d believed they’d make a difference. That she’d trust his words when she hadn’t been able to blindly trust his character.

She’d looked down at her feet, and he knew: It would always sound like too much protest, too late.

“The first time I sat down with my lawyer, he told me, ‘Innocent until proven guilty is a legal concept, not a guarantee that the average Joe will give you a fair shake.’ ”

“Maybe she’s not the average Joe.”

They both knew Owen was talking now about the woman at the New Year’s Eve party. There’s nothing average about her, Miles thought, and then, I spent fifteen minutes with her. That doesn’t make me an expert on who she is.

“Okay. Maybe she’s not. Seriously, though: I’m going to pursue this girl when I have nothing to offer her except a long-distance relationship and a criminal investigation? That’s appealing.”

“Can’t you let her be the judge of that?”

Miles crossed his arms. “Can you leave it alone?”

Owen clamped his mouth shut and leaned back in his seat.

Miles felt bad. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. And I’m sorry because I know you were probably going to go home with that blond woman and I blew it for you.”

“I’m not worried,” Owen said serenely. “I have her phone number.”

A group of travelers hanging off one of the poles broke into “Sweet Caroline.” It made conversation nearly impossible, which was not such a bad thing, because it gave Miles a few minutes to think. Mainly about the feel of her mouth against his, soft and yielding and then not yielding at all. Hot and wet and aggressive as hell, which he liked, along with those roaming hands. Christ, he was getting hard again.