Page 72 of Tempt Me

“It’s no problem,” I reply, taking a quick step back.

Her mouth twitches. “You were helping a little girl with her doll?”

I shrug. “Esme is the cutest. She had me wrapped around her little finger from the day she was born.”

“That’s so sweet,” she says. She scrabbles at the back of the dress then clears her throat delicately. “Um, do you mind…unzipping it a little further? I just can’t reach that high.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, trying not to sound as eager as I feel. My hands brush the soft skin of her back, casting another shiver of want down the length of my cock. I pull the zipper down halfway. She’s not wearing a bra. My dick swells to half-mast.

I turn away so Isla won’t see it through my jeans. I need to calm the fuck down right now.

There’s a rustle of fabric and then the bathroom door closes. I slump against the kitchen counter and take a few deep breaths, slowly bringing my body under control.

When Isla emerges from the bathroom, my stomach does another flip and my recently stilled cock twitches again. She’s wearing a sundress with thin white and blue stripes. Her skin glows, her hair cascading over one shoulder. I love the way her nose turns up slightly at the end, how her lips curve into a shy smile, looking up at me from beneath a fringe of thick brown lashes.

“Thanks,” she says, a faint trace of color highlighting her cheekbones.

“So…that’s the dress for the rehearsal dinner?”

“Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose.

“You don’t like it?”

“No,” she says quickly. “It’s beautiful.” She gives a sheepish grin. “I’m worried I’m going to spill something on it.”

I wish she wasn’t getting married at Everton. I wish it was somewhere I couldn’t picture so clearly. Somewhere that wasn’t my own goddamn home.

At least I won’t be around when it happens.

Her phone buzzes and she brushes past me to grab it off the counter. A dent forms between her eyebrows. She bites her lip and writes something out, then tucks her phone in her purse and slings it across her chest.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says without any further explanation. “I’m ready.”

We step out into the midsummer heat and Isla closes the door behind us.

“So, you really think this guy is responsible?” she asks.

“I do,” I say.

“Do you think he would admit that to you?”

“I knew him when he worked for us,” I say. “I think it’s more likely he’ll talk to me than Noah or another cop. I’m glad Fred got back to me.”

“Fred is the private investigator?”

Caden nods. “He sent me over all his files, but Noah was right, there’s just not that much evidence to go on. There aren’t any fingerprints. There’s no DNA. There’s not even a bullet to examine. The…” I suck in a quick breath, my chest tightening. “The wound,” I force myself to say the word in an even tone, “could have been caused by any number of caliber bullets—a .357, or a 9mm, or a .38.”

I have to pause halfway down the stairs, gripping the railing for support. Pain lances through me, thinking of my mother with a hole in her chest. Bleeding out on the floor of her shed, the one place she loved more than any other.

A soft hand perches on my shoulder, gentle as a bird.

“He sent me the autopsy but I couldn’t read it,” I say. Sudden tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them away. “He sent some crime scene photos too. Said they weren’t explicit, but…I still haven’t been able to bring myself to look at them.”

“That’s totally understandable,” Isla says.

“I should though. I need to face this.”

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