Page 82 of Long Gone

“Why are you so fixated on my love life?” he asked, and I couldn’t tell if he was irritated or amused. “I don’t do girlfriends. Too messy.”

“But a man like you has needs.” As soon as I said it, I wished I could rewind time about two seconds and take it back, but now that the statement was out there, I was going to own it. I lifted my chin in challenge.

He laughed. “I do, but I don’t believe in shitting in my own front yard. I take care of those needs outside of Lone County.”

That was interesting. It seemed like he was always at the tavern, but then he hadn’t been there all afternoon. He’d been with me.

“Tinder?”

He laughed again. “Harper, I don’t need Tinder.”

“That ego make it hard to fit through the door at times?”

“I seem to do just fine.” He pierced me with his own gaze. “What about you?”

“You mean for sex?” I asked with a grin. “I don’t need a man. I have a box full of toys that work just fine and don’t insist I talk about my feelings.”

“You screw a lot of men who like to talk about their feelings?”

“No, I’ve learned the type and steer clear.” I took a drink of my coffee, wishing it was laced with whiskey.

“Thus the decision to steer clear of the bookseller,” he said. “Ten to one he’s a feelings guy.”

I took another sip, then set the mug on the table, still clinging to it. “Nate is a great guy. He’ll make some woman really happy.” I lifted my gaze with a mischievous smile. “I hear lots of women are all about the feelings.”

He grinned back. “So I’ve heard.”

We sat in silence for a moment, and I knew I had to tell him about my dinner with my father, but it felt like one thing I had over him: something I knew, and he didn’t. Still, I knew he was probably sticking to me just like I was sticking to him. That had to be one of several reasons I’d chosen to meet my father at the tavern instead of Roots. He probably would have found a way to sit two tables away so he could eavesdrop on our conversation.

I glanced up at him. “I’m having dinner with my father tonight.”

“Okay…” He sounded bored, like I was spouting the fifty states in alphabetical order.

“He knows something about Hugo Burton.”

He brow lifted. “What does he know?”

“That’s what I plan to find out. When I asked what he knew about him, Dad got weird. So I suggested we meet for dinner and discuss it.”

“I’ll be coming to that dinner.”

“You don’t trust me to tell you what I find out?”

“I don’t trust you to tell me everything you find out. You’ll be selective.”

“No, Malcolm, that’s you,” I said, my irritation rising.

“We’re both parceling out information, and you damn well know it.”

“Maybe that’s because I don’t trust you,” I countered, my voice rising. “And the reason you’re hiding things from me—like what you found under the body—is because you have some nefarious reason for looking into this.”

“You don’t trust me?” he asked, his voice cold. “I definitely don’t trust you with my secrets. You’re too damn on the straight and narrow, but what good has that gotten you, Detective? The Little Rock police force set you up and kicked you out on your ass.”

“I quit.”

“Not because you wanted to,” he shot back.

“I’m on the straight and narrow?” I shouted, leaning forward. “If I was on the straight and narrow, I would have turned you in for murdering the Sylvester brothers.”

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