stared down at them, bemused by everything that had anything to do with her.
Restless and agitated, he dropped them off in his bedroom and left the building, heading toward the sound of music and voices. He took an offered cup of beer, slammed it, and went in search of a refill. If he drank enough, he could forget about Maggie, pretend his nerves weren’t spastic around her.
He found a girl that was more than happy to keep him company, and with her draped across his lap as he sat in the sand, he commenced to get plastered. If he got enough beers in him, he could obliterate Maggie from his mind. If he got enough beers in him, he might even believe that.
MAGGIE—2010
T HE POUNDING ON the door at six in the morning was not appreciated. Maggie let Lance know by grabbing a hardcover book off the nightstand and hurling it at the door. It made impact, and even she winced at how hard it hit. The door was probably gouged, which, of course, was Lance’s fault as well. She’d spent the remainder of yesterday avoiding him, and he’d allowed it, both of them knowing the next day would be a different case.
“Go away!”
“Rise and shine, Maggie. It’s the first day of a new you.”
“Suck it, Lance Denton!”
Maggie burrowed deeper under the blankets. Just as she was about to doze off, the door crashed open. She sprung upright and stared at the doorway through a tangled web of hair. She should have known he’d unlock it with his damn handy-dandy bobby pin. She needed to find his supply and dispose of them. And then get a deadbolt.
Light from the hallway surrounded him as he advanced, but his features were hidden by darkness. He was purposeful, determined, stalking toward her like she was his prey, and Maggie’s insides responded in kind. She didn’t want to find anything about him attractive, but unfortunately for her, she did.
After all those years, after everything . . . it was loathsome to admit.
“I like the old doors, easy to unlock,” he supplied with a thumbs-up sign. “I approve.”
That made her want to modernize every inch of the house, stat.
“Get out,” she said nastily.
“You say that a lot.”
“And yet, here you remain.”
Lance propped his hands on either side of her, leaned down so that his face was close to hers and the scent of freshly shampooed hair hit her, and said quietly, “If you are not up and out of bed by six in the morning, every morning, this is not going to work. You hired me to do a job.” He straightened. “Let me do it.”
Her pulse thrummed, more from his words than his proximity, which was odd. It was the way he’d spoken them, confident and without any bullshit. Maggie let her head fall back onto the pillow and looked up at a black ceiling. “Okay. You’re right. Okay. But why can’t it be at seven?”
“I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say you were sorry? And it’s six. I have other things to do with the rest of my day.”
Maggie propped herself up on her elbows and glared at his head. Lance stood with his legs apart and arms crossed over his expansive chest. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to, to know that it was smug.
She raised a hand, one particular finger lifted. “Let me know if you catch—”
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he hastily interjected.
Deciding it was too much effort, and a wasted one, to make herself presentable, Maggie tugged on a sports bra that mashed her D-cup breasts into one, huge uni-boob. She finished off the ensemble with a yellow tank top that had seen its share of grease and dirt, and red shorts. She didn’t brush her hair, and she didn’t brush her teeth. If Lance saw her at her worst, his expectations would be low, so when she actually tried to look decent, he would be impressed.
Not that she cared what he thought.
The bottom of the stairs seemed unreachable as she made her zombie-trek down them—a slow, disjointed, swaying amble with the purpose to remain
Restless and agitated, he dropped them off in his bedroom and left the building, heading toward the sound of music and voices. He took an offered cup of beer, slammed it, and went in search of a refill. If he drank enough, he could forget about Maggie, pretend his nerves weren’t spastic around her.
He found a girl that was more than happy to keep him company, and with her draped across his lap as he sat in the sand, he commenced to get plastered. If he got enough beers in him, he could obliterate Maggie from his mind. If he got enough beers in him, he might even believe that.
MAGGIE—2010
T HE POUNDING ON the door at six in the morning was not appreciated. Maggie let Lance know by grabbing a hardcover book off the nightstand and hurling it at the door. It made impact, and even she winced at how hard it hit. The door was probably gouged, which, of course, was Lance’s fault as well. She’d spent the remainder of yesterday avoiding him, and he’d allowed it, both of them knowing the next day would be a different case.
“Go away!”
“Rise and shine, Maggie. It’s the first day of a new you.”
“Suck it, Lance Denton!”
Maggie burrowed deeper under the blankets. Just as she was about to doze off, the door crashed open. She sprung upright and stared at the doorway through a tangled web of hair. She should have known he’d unlock it with his damn handy-dandy bobby pin. She needed to find his supply and dispose of them. And then get a deadbolt.
Light from the hallway surrounded him as he advanced, but his features were hidden by darkness. He was purposeful, determined, stalking toward her like she was his prey, and Maggie’s insides responded in kind. She didn’t want to find anything about him attractive, but unfortunately for her, she did.
After all those years, after everything . . . it was loathsome to admit.
“I like the old doors, easy to unlock,” he supplied with a thumbs-up sign. “I approve.”
That made her want to modernize every inch of the house, stat.
“Get out,” she said nastily.
“You say that a lot.”
“And yet, here you remain.”
Lance propped his hands on either side of her, leaned down so that his face was close to hers and the scent of freshly shampooed hair hit her, and said quietly, “If you are not up and out of bed by six in the morning, every morning, this is not going to work. You hired me to do a job.” He straightened. “Let me do it.”
Her pulse thrummed, more from his words than his proximity, which was odd. It was the way he’d spoken them, confident and without any bullshit. Maggie let her head fall back onto the pillow and looked up at a black ceiling. “Okay. You’re right. Okay. But why can’t it be at seven?”
“I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say you were sorry? And it’s six. I have other things to do with the rest of my day.”
Maggie propped herself up on her elbows and glared at his head. Lance stood with his legs apart and arms crossed over his expansive chest. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to, to know that it was smug.
She raised a hand, one particular finger lifted. “Let me know if you catch—”
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he hastily interjected.
Deciding it was too much effort, and a wasted one, to make herself presentable, Maggie tugged on a sports bra that mashed her D-cup breasts into one, huge uni-boob. She finished off the ensemble with a yellow tank top that had seen its share of grease and dirt, and red shorts. She didn’t brush her hair, and she didn’t brush her teeth. If Lance saw her at her worst, his expectations would be low, so when she actually tried to look decent, he would be impressed.
Not that she cared what he thought.
The bottom of the stairs seemed unreachable as she made her zombie-trek down them—a slow, disjointed, swaying amble with the purpose to remain
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