Chapter 4
1021 Words
Why did men always pick the worst times to do something? He didn't want to talk six months ago, but now he'd decided it was time. As if I was supposed to fall at his feet and converse with him. I'd be more likely to stab him with a pinecone.
Broadrick, unaware of my continued berating of him in my mind, only shrugged. "Yeah, it seems like you've got some free time on your hands."
My eyes grew wide, but then I quickly closed them because the icy cold threatened to freeze them that way. The snot in my nose was already a goner. I couldn't lose my optic fluid too.
"I'm busy." And hurt.
He dumped me. In email! Two years and I get an email. I thought we were perfect. One happy little long-distance couple. And worse, when I asked for a reason, the only one he gave me was my age. The five-year difference was too much for Broadrick, even though I was months away from being twenty-two.
My mother gave birth to me when she was twenty.
I watched a video on f*******: with a seventy-two-year-old woman dating a twenty-year-old. Now that is an age difference. Five years was nothing in the scheme of things. But sadly, he didn't see it that way. It's not like six months changed the time between our birthdays, so I didn't understand why he cared now.
We were both over twenty-one, so why did it matter?
I turned away from him so he wouldn't see the pain in my eyes and focused on the house, refusing to cry. Frozen tears didn't look good on anyone.
"Listen, I'm busy right now."
"You don't look busy," he countered.
"Well, I am."
Extremely busy. My cheating husband case just became a murdered wife case. Plus, the hundred-and-fifty-dollar deposit Mrs. Jones paid me wouldn't make rent, so I'd need to find another case or pick up more shifts at the bakery-my part-time employment-if I wanted to avoid sleeping in my car.
I'd been so focused on the house and avoiding tears, I missed it when Broadrick stepped in front of me. I did not, however, miss it when he plastered his lips against mine. His lush, beautiful lips that were one part soft and one part hard. Like Momma Bear's porridge. Sparks flew around us and my toes grew warm for the first time all night. Damn, I missed his lips.
I leaned in, wanting that happy feeling to spread throughout me, but then realized what he'd done and broke away, but not before I hit him with a fist on his shoulder.
"What the hell was that?" I asked, glaring in his direction and hoping he saw it in the dim light.
He shrugged and leaned up against the tree, no more flakes falling with the movement. "A kiss."
I reclaimed my spot against my tree, thankful that whoever trimmed the bottom branches to make it easier to mow took the time to cut them right to the trunk. My dad always left a few inches, making it harder to hide yourself against them.
"We don't steal kisses. We ask first. This isn't 1950, B," I said, using his own special nickname. Most people called him Broadrick. A few select friends might get away with calling him Mac, but only I called him B.
I only saw half of his stupid grin because of the poor lighting, but he definitely wore one. "Okay, next time I'll ask."
I frowned harder. "There won't be a next time."
But my heart hurt with the convincing words.
Damn, that was a great kiss. One of our best. In a relationship of best kisses that said a lot.
I spent the next hour ignoring Broadrick with neither of us trying to communicate-or kiss-again. It didn't stop me from spending the entire sixty minutes getting lost in memories of our relationship. But that's all they were. Memories.
The chemistry between us seemed to arc in the air, making it impossible to forget his presence even as I assured myself I was probably losing a toe to frostbite.
Finally, one by one, the ambulance left-with a black body bag on a stretcher-and then each officer slowly filed out of the home and drove away in their squad cars. Broadrick and I stepped out from behind the trees together. As if he sensed my movements before I made them.
It was totally annoying.
And in no way hot at all.
Totally not.
We made our way to the Jones' driveway, and I was only a few feet away from the side door before Broadrick pulled on the sleeve of my coat. "Where are you going?"
"To look around," I said, not bothering to turn back and acknowledge him. If I did, I might kiss him again, and then I'd have to commit myself. If I didn't have therapy money, I sure didn't have seventy-two-hour psych eval money.
"No." He gave my coat one final big tug and stopped me in my tracks.
I jerked my arm from his grasp and glared with wide eyes, promising retribution. "You do not get to boss me."
Broadrick stepped back and raised his hands in a surrendering motion. "Okay."
I huffed to his side and stepped around him from where he'd tried to block my path.
"You realize it's an active crime scene?" he asked as my hand touched the knob.
"Obviously." I pulled the back door open, barely giving it a second thought. The police hadn't locked it behind them. Lazy.
Broadrick stayed behind, not making his way to the door, and I shook my head as I stepped in. "Good riddance," I mumbled, but the words hurt to say.
Did he plan to leave me to walk into a crime scene alone? See what I meant about total jerk face?
I took my first step inside the well-lit room and came to a halt on the other side of the door. It swung closed behind me, blocking me into the murder kitchen.
"Good evening, Ms. Vines."
"Oh shit." I backed into the door.
- Writer
