Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(18)

Farren doesn’t acknowledge my phone comment, but he does smile over at me.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come on,” I urge.

“Okay, okay.” He laughs. “It’s just your enthusiasm is reminding me that I need to try harder to savor the little things when I travel.” He frowns, though he still manages to look gorgeous, even when he adds sourly, “Not that the places I go to are much worth remembering.”

“Is it because those trips are for work?” I venture.

“Yeah,” Farren mutters, “something like that.”

I clear my throat and softly inquire, “Where all have you traveled to?”

“All over,” he says. “You name it, I’ve probably been there.”

“What about recently? Where have you gone?”

“Well,” he says slowly. “I spent some time in South America last month. And before that I was in Thailand.”

I twist in my seat, stretching out the seat belt so I can face Farren more directly. “Wow, I’ve always heard those places are beautiful.”

Staring straight ahead, and in a low tone, he replies, “The parts of those countries I was in were far from pretty, Essalin.”

Hmm…

I settle back in my seat. If I wasn’t convinced before, I’m convinced now that whatever Farren’s job is, it’s shady. Hell, he’s done nothing to dispel my earlier assertions that his sister’s disappearance is somehow connected to his work. That let-it-go comment was far from reassuring.

Both of us grow quiet, and like the sudden mood in the car, things outside start to cloud up.

“Looks like rain up ahead,” I observe.

“Yeah,” Farren replies, sounding distracted. “It sure does.”

Fat, squishy droplets begin to pelt the windshield, and then it starts to pour.

With the rain ominously pounding in the background, Farren asks, “So, the two men at the bar—Eric and Vincent—how did they approach you and my sister?”

“Um, they didn’t,” I admit. “We went to where they were seated.”

Farren’s gaze slides sharply to me, his green eyes flashing. “What made you go to them? You both had to have realized they weren’t students.”

“Um, that was kind of the appeal.” With heated cheeks, and a fair amount of cringing, I explain to Farren how his sister was urging me to “try out” an older man.

“And what would make her encourage you to do something like that?” he wants to know.

“Um, maybe because she’s had experience with one,” I offer.

Farren shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Please tell me this wasn’t something she pursued regularly.”

“Well…” I scrunch up my face. I so don’t want to have this discussion.

But when Farren says “Essa” in a chastising voice, I fess up. “Okay, okay. Haven likes older men. There, I said it. Are you happy now?”

He shakes his head. “Not particularly.”

I hasten to add, “There is a reason, though.”

“A reason for what?” he asks flatly.

“A reason for why she was so willing to approach Eric and Vincent Friday night at the bar.”

“This, I can’t wait to hear,” Farren mumbles sarcastically.

Sighing, I try to explain, “It’s because she was hurting. Her acting professor broke her heart recently. That night at the bar, she was hoping someone could fix it, help her forget about him.”

Farren is silent, and I venture a peek over at him.

Shit. His posture is tense, and a muscle is twitching in his jaw.

“How old is this professor?” he asks, his tone inscrutable. “And what’s his name?”

“Um…” I hesitate. I mean, I despise Professor Walsh, yes. But I don’t wish to see him dead or anything. And the expression on Farren’s handsome face—brutally handsome at this point—gives me pause about sharing what I know.

I assume, though, that Farren has other ways to find out what he wants to know, so I go ahead and spill. “His name is Professor Walsh. And he’s about thirty-five.”

Farren’s only response is a quick nod, like he’s storing the info for another day.

The next few miles are spent in silence, until Farren flips on the car stereo. He tunes in an indie rock station, and eventually—thank God—things begin to lighten up.

As time passes, we discover we like many of the same songs. When a Heather Nova song comes on, one that I love, I can’t help but sing along. A few of the lines are provocative, and Farren chuckles and shakes his head as I belt them out.

When the song ends, he turns down the volume and asks, “What was the name of that song?”

“‘Walk This World,’” I tell him.

I then realize how many of the lines could apply to me…and him…and him and me together. Next thing you know, I am blushing profusely. And I swear that man must have listened to every line and lyric—or else he knew the song already—since the smug look on his face tells me he knows exactly why I’m blushing.

Thankfully, though, Farren seems to sense I’m genuinely embarrassed and changes the subject.