Chapter Eleven
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 6:37 AM
subject: Rise and shine…
Took this just now after our morning run. Hence, the tongue lolling out of his mouth. And yeah, you can say it. He’s adorable.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 8:34 AM
subject: Some of us sleep in
OMG he is so cute. I’m in love with your dog.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 8:45 AM
subject: Did I wear you out last night?
He has that effect on women.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 9:04 AM
subject: Maybe I just need my beauty sleep…
He is so handsome. If he were mine I’d dress him in a cool leather jacket. Or maybe a sweater. A trendy sweater. Like a cardigan. With an elbow patch.
from: [email protected]
date: July 16, 9:17 AM
subject: You’re naturally beautiful
He will never wear clothes. I assure you.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 9:21 AM
subject: Now I’m blushing
What about a vest? I once knit a vest for my cat when I was in high school, back when I thought I was going to be a fashion designer rather than a geek-girl coder.
From his home office, with the AC blasting and his black and white dog crashed at his feet on the hardwood floor, Ryan laughed softly at Sophie’s email and the image of her knitting a vest for a pet. His mom used to make jackets for dogs for fun for friends and neighbors. She’d sewn a forest green jacket with a dog bone design on the back and declared it her lottery ticket.
“Someday I will no longer be merely the seamstress to local high school gymnasts and showgirls. I’ll make jackets for dogs. This will be my mark on the world,” his mom had declared, holding up the small coat proudly.
She’d made her mark on the world, all right. But not in the way she’d intended. Still, she’d asked him to hold onto the pattern for the dog jacket.
“Someday,” she’d said as she gave it to him before she left for good. “Hold it for me, my sweet Ryan.”
He opened the desk drawer where he kept the pattern, worn around the edges now. He had taken a photo of it, too, so he also had a digital copy. He held onto it not because he believed his mom was going to break free of bars and become a world-renowned dog-clothing maker, but because it was a rare unblemished moment in the memories of her.
It was a moment about hopes and dreams, and about wishes, even though they’d gone unfulfilled.
He closed the drawer, and returned to the present day. To the email banter that he couldn’t seem to stay away from.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 9:27 AM
subject: You probably look immeasurably hot blushing
More like a pin-up girl coder. How on earth did the computer science guys get any work done with you around?
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 9:31 AM
subject: You are full of compliments. I like it.
I assure you, I was quite geeky in college. I never wore skirts and dresses or high-heel shoes.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 9:33 AM
subject: I could go on all day about you…
I refuse to believe you were geeky. Prove it with a photo.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 9:44 AM
subject: Please do
See? Case closed.
He groaned as he stared at the photos she’d sent. They must have been taken ten years ago, and yeah, she had the whole casual Converse sneakers-sweatshirt-knit-cap look going on, the complete opposite of the woman he knew now. Still, she was hot then, and she was hot now, and no matter what, she turned him on. Fucking hell. He was hard already just from a picture.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 9:47 AM
subject: Hot as hell. Gorgeous as heaven. Sexy as Sin.
Just. As. Fucking. Hot.
You are just as fucking hot in jeans and a hoodie as you are in a tight dress.
Everything looks good on you because you look good in anything.
And everything.
And especially in nothing.
from: [email protected]
date: July 15, 9:52 AM
subject: Same to you.
Nothing… I believe I have that outfit planned for you.
* * *
After a lunch meeting with a new client later that day, Ryan’s phone rang. His spine straightened as he headed to the parking lot of the restaurant and answered John Winston’s call.
“Hey,” he said.
The detective said a quick hello then slid into business. “Mr. Sloan,” he began, and Ryan found it vaguely amusing that Winston was so formal in how he talked. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had another question for you.”
“Sure,” Ryan said, as he unlocked his truck and turned on the radio. It was an old habit to have a little background noise during a private conversation.
“Luke Carlton. The piano teacher your mom had an affair with,” the man began, and Ryan clenched his jaw, a visceral reaction to that name and that description. There was so very little anyone could say of his mother that was good. She’d had an affair, she was in prison for murder, she’d been a—
But he couldn’t even say those words in his head.
“Was he ever at your home” John asked. “Did you mom spend time with him at the house?”
Ryan took a deep breath, letting the air work its way through his frustration at having to discuss the cheating she’d done. As if that was the worst thing. “Not really. She kept it pretty secret.”
“Sure. Of course. I get that,” the detective said, and Ryan forced himself to keep blinders on, to see John solely as the detective and not as the brother of the woman he’d taken on a limo ride up and down the Strip last night. “Did they ever meet on James Street?”
Ryan furrowed his brow. “James Street? Not that I know of. But that’s a pretty long street. Cuts through a lot of town.”
John laughed lightly. “Yeah. I know. That’s the problem.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Just trying to put some things together.”
“Man, I wish I could help, but I sure as hell wasn’t privy to the details of her affair,” he said, though that wasn’t entirely true. His mom had told him how much Luke had helped her to come out on the other side of the trouble she was in. But all that data fell under the don’t breathe a word category. She’d warned him before she left for prison to guard those secrets, and he did—to keep her out of more trouble and to protect her honor, even from behind bars. He hadn’t breathed a goddamn word. He’d buried that secret far inside him, like an artifact in a sandstorm.
“Listen, I would really appreciate it if you could give me a call if you remember anything about their relationship.”
He shoved a hand through his hair and nodded. “Of course.”
The call ended and he banged his head on the steering wheel.
What the fuck was he supposed to say to Sophie? Your brother called me today to ask about my mom’s lover from eighteen years ago?
The last thing he wanted her to know about was his shit storm of a past. He’d never met a woman he’d wanted to tell. He had no clue how he’d even begin that conversation. He wished, he really fucking wished, that he could just be the man he was now. Not the guy whose family story had been dragged through the headlines in all its salaciousness years ago.
He only wanted the woman, not for the past to spill over into his present with her.