Page 40 of A Stop in Time

Do I believe I’ll be able to control myself around him and keep it strictly to conversation and snacks? Mmm, if I had a Magic 8 Ball, I’m pretty sure it would tell me the outlook isn’t good. Because this man seems to tap into the monstrous stash of horniness I wasn’t even aware I’d tucked away.

“How about this?” I slide my hands in my back pockets and rock on my heels. “I’ll go grab us the snacks I mentioned earlier and meet you in a few minutes. What’s your room number?”

His brows snap together. “229 at The—”

“Pelican Inn,” I finish for him. “I know.”

Suspicion lights his tone and gaze. “How do you know?”

“Because it’s the only motel around here.” I walk backward and don’t want to admit to the anticipation coursing through me at knowing I get more time with him. “I’ll see you in about ten minutes.”

“Okay.” The flat quality of his voice tells me he thinks I’ll ghost on him.

“Ten minutes, Danny. Prepare for the snacks of champions.”

20

DANIEL

Disgust and horror. That’s all I feel right now.

“This isn’t even close to what I expected.”

She rips off the plastic encasing her giant beef stick with her teeth and winks. “It’s surpassed it? Awesome.”

She tears off an enormous chunk of processed meat and chews before chasing it with a swig of her canned beer.

“How do you eat shit like this?” I mutter while scanning the list of ingredients I can’t even pronounce on the wrapper of the one she bought me. “It’ll stay in your goddamn intestines long after you die.”

“Sounds intense.”

My eyes lift to find her watching me with an amused expression. She chews happily, the near-foot-long meat stick already more than half-gone.

“Please tell me this isn’t somethin’ you do often.”

She pauses to take another drink of beer. “It’s not something I do often.”

I grunt before taking a sip of my own. “You’re just sayin’ that.”

“You asked nicely.”

When I toss my unopened processed meat stick at her, she swats it aside with a laugh.

Volume low and serving more as white noise than actual entertainment, the television plays some stupid infomercial shit.

With our boots already discarded and her hat sitting on the chair, we’re sprawled on the large king-size bed bordered by two bedside tables that’ve seen better days.

The shitty-ass pillows behind our backs don’t serve as much of a cushion, but the mattress is at least decently comfortable, and we have plenty of space between us.

I set my now tepid beer on the wobbly side table beside my gun and holster Mac studiously ignored when I removed them earlier.

When we fall quiet, it’s not the kind that’s awkward or weighted. It’s unusual to have that with a stranger. Hell, it can be hard to come by with somebody I actually know.

If somebody had told me I’d be sitting on a motel room bed, fully clothed with a woman beside me, I would’ve looked at them like they were fucked in the head. Because if I’m with a woman, clothes’ll be on the floor, and I’ll have either my face or dick buried in her pussy.

I rake a hand through my hair, biting back a groan. I’m so fucked, and it’s not only because of Emilia’s murder.

The intriguing-as-hell woman beside me has me twisted in goddamn knots, with confusion and arousal battling it out. I don’t tend to let my guard down around others—and especially not around women, because too many of them have wanted the notoriety that comes with being part of The Scorpions.

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