Page 5 of A Method to His Madness

There’s a sigh from Ashley and my stomach tightens in response, the anticipation of seeing her again—finally—prickling my palms, my scalp.

“Is there any chance the boat will sink?” she asks, hopefully.

Alone in my dark office, I smile. Then I let it drop.

Put my game face on and push off my desk, crossing to the door and opening it, my attention zeroing in on her face. Her pupils expand as our eyes meet, her chest dipping almost unnoticeably. I notice. I can’t imagine a world where I don’t notice every little thing about her. For instance, her hands meet and clasp below her navel when I murmur her name in greeting, as if she’s unconsciously trying to block her pussy from view.

Is it already having a response to me?

Maybe that’s why she looks so annoyed.

God, she’s beautiful. Glasses in place, hair in a tight braid. An oversized pea coat.

You can’t hide perfection from me, angel. I see you.

Her husband, on the other hand, has his thumbs tucked under his armpits, chin thrust out, like a belligerent clown. Impatient to go pack his tackle box, instead of focused on fixing his marriage to this goddess who is a million miles out of his league.

“I’ll enjoy taking her from you, Waylon,” I say.

His eyes bug out. “What?”

“Her coat,” I say smoothly, stepping back to let them cross the threshold. “I’ll enjoy taking her coat.”

He hesitates, trying to puzzle through my statement, before roughly nudging Ashley inside. And just like that, I’m picturing his blood staining my walls.

Easy, Caleb.

Play the long game.

Keeping a censorious eye on Waylon, I hold out my hand for Ashley’s coat, but she shakes her head, bundling the wool tighter to her body. “I’ll keep it on.”

“Very well.” I just barely manage to avoid slamming the door behind them. “Have a seat.”

Waylon stomps deeper into the office and drops onto the couch that faces my leather wingback chair, sniffing. “Just what the hell are we planning to do here, exactly? I don’t have a lot of time.”

His back is to me and Ashley, so instead of wasting my time answering the buffoon, I meet her guarded green eyes and mouth the words, “Are you okay?”

With a heavy swallow, she inclines her head. Outwardly calm.

But the vein at the bottom of her delicate neck is pounding wildly.

I want to pull her close and reassure her that everything is going to be fine now, but she doesn’t like being touched. Yet. She doesn’t trust me.Yet.

But she trusted me enough to come here. To read the message on the back of my card and take the leap. I refuse to let her down.

A moment later, I’m sitting across from Waylon and Ashley, clipboard resting on my knee. Pen wedged between by index and middle fingers. “First off, I would like to get some preliminary information. Waylon, how old are you?”

His knee starts to jiggle. “Thirty-one.”

“And Ashley…”

“Twenty.”

I desperately want to judge the age gap, but I can’t, considering I’m thirty-three, myself and fully intend to make this woman mine. “Right. Let’s start at the beginning,” I say, after making a note. “How did you two meet?”

Silence.

Waylon crosses his arms stiffly.

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