Page 79 of Long Gone

“Obviously, but that looks like something your mother would wear.”

My brow shot up. “You know my mother?”

He snorted. “Figure of speech.”

“Why aren’t you dressed? What were you doing? I showered, washed my hair twice to make sure I got the dead smell out of it, found clothes in my mother’s room, and had a phone conversation with my father. You’re still…” I waved a hand toward him, then dropped it. “Were you too busy snooping through my things to get changed?”

“Please,” he said, the word drenched in disgust. “You’ve got nothing worth snooping through unless I was looking for booze. If I was, I would have been out of luck with that big empty bottle of Jack in your bed.”

My face burned, mostly because it was true, but he was also the only person who could make me feel truly like shit, while I clearly didn’t affect him in the least.

“If my home is so far beneath you, then why were you using my shower?” I countered.

“I never said it was beneath me, just that you didn’t have anything worth snooping through.” He turned and snatched a pair of jeans and a shirt that were lying on the arm of the chair, then walked into my bathroom and shut the door, leaving it open a tiny crack. “What was your call with your father about?”

“Do you not believe in personal boundaries?” I asked, walking over to the sink and squatting in front of it as I opened the cabinet door. My bottle of Tito’s was right where I’d left it.

“You don’t seem all that close with your parents, so a friendly mid-day chat seems unlikely.”

“You don’t know shit about me, Malcolm, so don’t go assuming anything about my relationship with my parents.” I shot a glance at the door to make sure it was closed, but I caught a glimpse of him through the crack, a sliver-sized view of his naked body from behind, and parts of me that had been slumbering started to heat up.

Had he left it open so he could carry on a conversation through the door, or was he tempting me to look? Knowing him, both.

I jerked my gaze away and grabbed the vodka bottle, unscrewing the cap and downing a good-sized gulp. I was not attracted to James Malcolm. He was a criminal and looked out only for himself. He was using me, just like I was using him, and when this case was over, we’d go back to our separate lives.

I took another swig, choking when I thought of what my mother would say if she knew I was even thinking about sleeping with a known criminal. She’d be absolutely scandalized.

I should be scandalized.

“You okay out there?” he called out, and I glanced over in time to see him in a side profile. This time he was wearing skintight, black boxer briefs.

“I’m fine,” I snapped, took another drink for good measure, then screwed the cap back on.

The alcohol was already warming my chest, and a familiar looseness rushed through my limbs. I closed my eyes and savored the feeling, when my world tipped from wrong to not right, but…comforting. The constant tension eased and the noise in my head dampened, giving way to peace, even if it was fleeting.

Two months ago, one gulp of vodka would have given me that rush of comfort. Now it took three. Even I, in my deep state of denial, knew this wasn’t sustainable.

Taking a deep breath, I closed the cabinet as I stood, then realized Malcolm would be able smell the vodka on my breath. My go-to to take it away was gum or a mint, but he’d see right through that. Instead, I started grinding beans in my espresso machine and grabbed a muffin stuffed with blueberries out of the fridge. The muffin had appeared on my kitchen counter a few days ago. Some kind of peace offering from my mother, but I hadn’t acknowledged it, not out of spite but forgetfulness.

I was forgetting a lot of things lately.

I’d already made the espresso and was foaming the milk when Malcolm walked out of the bathroom.

“Would you like a latte?” I asked, my back still to him. “Or maybe a cappuccino? I’m pretty good with this thing, good enough that I considered opening a coffee shop so this town had decent coffee.”

“I thought your boyfriend made coffee at his bookstore,” he said in a lazy tone as he took a seat on the sofa, stretching his arm out on the handrest.

“Nate? He’s not my boyfriend,” I said with a snort.

“He’d like to be.”

I slowly spun around to face him, realizing that James Malcolm had ascended to a position of power because he noticed small details and used them to his advantage. One more piece of evidence that he was building a case on me, preparing to pull out the parts he needed to make me do what he wanted.

And I knew jack-shit about him.

“Nate’s feelings don’t concern you.” I propped a hand on my hip. “Do you want coffee or not?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Can you make a macchiato?”

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