Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(17)

“Oh, Harris.” I leaned away from it, my tone laced heavily with sarcasm as he pawed me. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t you?” I fumbled with my key fob and the sliding door rolled open, nearly knocking Harris to the ground. I held him steady as he plopped down on the floor in front of Zach’s car seat, apple juice and Goldfish cracker goo sticking to the backside of his expensive suit as I pushed him backward with promises of the good time waiting for him if he climbed inside and laid down on the floor like a good boy. He growled in my ear as I nudged him in, slurring about all the things he’d do to me if I crawled inside with him, most of which made me cringe and arguably would have justified accepting Patricia’s offer. Then, finally, he slumped into a deep sleep.



* * *



I stuffed Harris’s feet inside the van and shut the sliding door behind them. Dogs barked somewhere close, and I peered around the dumpster into the bright parking lot on the other side, praying no one had seen what I’d done. A couple walked arm in arm into the bar. A group of women huddled smoking out front but didn’t look my way. The dogs’ barks faded into the background.

I dug in my bag for my cell phone as I raced around to the driver’s-side door. I should call Patricia first. Make sure she was home. Then I’d explain the conversation she overheard in Panera and set this whole misunderstanding straight.

“Theresa!” I stiffened as a cool voice cut across the parking lot.

I spun to see Julian crossing the lot toward me, wearing an easy smile and spinning his car keys around his finger. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were unfastened, his sleeves rolled to his elbows as if he’d just signed off for the night.

“I was hoping you hadn’t left.” He leaned against the side of my van, and I silently thanked god for the darkness. And Dodge, for tinted rear windows in minivans.

“I am so … so sorry,” I stammered, pressing my fingers to my forehead and struggling through a rushed apology. “I totally wasn’t intending to ghost on you. And I didn’t mean to leave without paying for that last drink. I just—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said gently, easing upright and taking a half step back, his hands raised. “You don’t need to apologize. You don’t owe me anything.”

“But the Bloody Mary—”

“Was more than covered by your tip,” he said, keeping a comfortable distance between us. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay to drive home. I can call you a cab,” he added, making it clear this wasn’t a come-on, “if you need a lift.”

“Thanks. I’m okay.” I pressed my lips shut to keep myself from babbling and saying too much. I was far from okay. There was an unconscious pervert stuffed in the back of my minivan and an IOU in my purse from the woman who wanted me to kill him. And I was going to be late to pick up my kids from my sister’s house, which meant she was going to start looking for me. I thumbed my cell phone awake, surprised Georgia wasn’t already blowing it up.

“Can I see your phone?” Julian asked. I handed it over to him. There was something so disarming about him. About the softness of his voice and the earnest concern in his eyes. He opened my contacts and programmed his number. “Just in case you need it,” he said, returning it to me and tucking his hands in his pockets. “Or … you know … in case you change your mind about going out with me sometime.”

He backed away from my van, his narrow waist silhouetted by the streetlight behind him. He cut a nice shape against the darkening sky, and a not-so-small part of me wished I had stayed to hang out with him at the bar earlier, even if I was too old for him.

“I have kids,” I called across the parking lot. “Two of them.”

His smile caught the lamplight. “I’ve got nothing against minivans.”

I fought back a surprised laugh as I watched him go. What the hell was happening, and how was this my life? I climbed into the driver’s seat and stared at his number. If I made it through the night without being arrested by the highway patrol—or worse, by my sister—maybe I’d call him sometime.

With a heavy sigh, I pulled the crumpled note from my purse and dialed Patricia’s number. Listening to the ring through my Bluetooth, I pulled into traffic heading in the vague direction of the Micklers’ home. Finally, Patricia answered.

“Is it done?”

“Are you home?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Thank god.” I reached into the center console for a pack of gum. I smelled like a distillery. “Your husband tried to drug some woman at a bar. I … He accidentally drugged himself instead. I have him and I’m bringing him home,” I said, feeling oddly connected to this woman I hardly knew. And far too familiar with her husband. I merged into the far-right lane, staying under the posted speed limit.

“No! You can’t bring him here!” Her objections rose to a fevered pitch. “You have to get rid of him. I’m not paying you unless you get rid of him like you said … neat!”

“I never said I would do anything. You overheard a conversation you didn’t understand.” An Audi cut me off as it darted to make the ramp to the toll road. I leaned into the horn, adrenaline pumping as I checked my rearview mirror for flashing lights, relieved to find none. “Look, just because he’s an asshole and a creep doesn’t mean he deserves to—”