My Killer Vacation(62)

“I wasn’t seriously accusing him—” Dante starts, holding up a contrite hand.

“Well you did.” I squeeze in closer to Myles’s side. “You did. And he didn’t deserve it. Yes, he comes across like a massive jerk, but he’s got a soft center, you know?” I wait for Dante to nod. “He’d take a bullet between the eyes before he raised a hand to me. Those were his precise words earlier. And he feels the exact same way about Jude.”

“Not the exact same way, Taylor,” Myles mutters, shrugging at Jude. “Nothing personal.”

“Too bad.” Jude snaps the caps off two bottles of beer, uses them to gesture at the three of us. “I’ve seen that porn, too.”

“Jesus,” Dante sighs, but the corner of his lips are tugging. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Jude’s expression doesn’t change. “That makes one of us.”

The movie star’s smile drops. He and Jude go back to staring at each other and they don’t stop, even when Jude limps across the floor and hands his friend a beer. They’re like two alley cats waiting to see who will blink first.

“We should leave them to talk,” I say, looking up at Myles—and I’m surprised to find him already frowning down at me. Not angrily. More curious or surprised.

“Massive jerk, huh?”

“That’s the part you’re zeroing in on?”

“No,” he says quietly, cupping the side of my face. Watching in fascination as his thumb skims my cheekbone. “It’s not.”

“Oh?”

Grunt. “I’m waiting for the police to get back to me on Evergreen Corp. Could be an hour or so.” He shakes his head. “There are a lot of other leads I need to follow, but I just keep thinking about how you never got your ice cream.”

I don’t know if it’s possible to fall in love with a man in four days. But if it is, I think I’ve just soundly accomplished that feat with Myles Sumner. And there’s no more pretending I’m not heading for a very steep fall.





Chapter 18





Myles





* * *




I don’t take her back to downtown Falmouth for ice cream. There’s no chance of that. After doubling back three times to make sure we’re not being followed, I drive us to Wood’s Hole in Taylor’s Elantra. Where hopefully no one is trying to kill her.

When we walk into the ice cream shop, I barely resist the impulse to shout, “Everything. Give her one of everything.” I want to buy her a scoop of each flavor. Hell, I want to buy her the whole fucking shop and hang a sign on the front with her name on it. This does not bode well for my imminent departure. Not at all. By some insane twist of fate, I’ve gone from wrestling convicts to the ground, dodging gunfire and nursing injuries in motel rooms to holding this woman’s hand on an ice cream date. How in God’s name did I get here?

More importantly, how do I go back to thinking of me and Taylor as temporary?

Can’t seem to do it, no matter how much logic I shed on the situation.

Which is crazy when there are so many factors working against us. I live on the road. She’s in a stable routine in Connecticut. She wants a husband and kids.

And I definitely don’t want that.

Definitely not.

But while she’s leaning forward and smiling down at the heaping piles of ice cream on the other side of the glass, maybe…maybe I just let myself imagine it. Us walking into this place with a kid on my shoulders, their grimy fingers in my hair. Taylor with another bun in the oven.

Pregnant, because I got her that way.

It takes me a moment to move on from the images that brings to mind.

Okay. Way longer than a moment.

Would we make love as usual and just leave it to chance? Or would she…would we fuck with the express intent of getting her pregnant? Christ. That would be…

Don’t think about how satisfying it would be. Don’t think about looking her in the eye when I come and knowing it serves a purpose beyond physical pleasure. Don’t think of her wrapping her thighs tighter, tilting her hips and praising me for my healthy swimmers.

Unless they aren’t healthy.

Then we’ll have to see a doctor. Do the whole fertility thing—

Dear God, how did I get to a fertility doctor?

Back to the ice cream shop. There’s a kid on my shoulders. Probably in a Red Sox jersey. Since Taylor is pregnant, she’ll probably have cravings and order something other than her usual butterscotch. She’d have extra napkins in her purse to wipe our kid’s face. I’d promise to rub her swollen feet when we get home.

Home.

What would that look like?

“Myles.” Taylor’s voice breaks into my thoughts. She’s looking at me funny. “Did you hear me? I asked if you wanted to stick with cookie dough or try the vastly superior butterscotch.”

“Cookie dough,” I manage around the prickle in my throat. I have to let go of her hand to reach for my wallet, but I keep an eye on it as I pay for the ice cream, so I can collect it again as soon as possible. I like holding her hand a lot. I’m not sure if I like her defending my honor to her brother’s friend, so much as it makes my chest feel…like sifting sand. It has been a long time since someone spoke up for me like that. My brother was probably the last person to say something nice about me. Out loud.