“Makes sense. Okay, you clingy bitch, talk later. Love you.” Ryan hung up.
Skylar stared at her screen, then thumbed through her contacts until Rawley’s name glowed at the top. The little thumbnail beside it was a selfie he’d taken of them yesterday while riding, both of them smiling, the world falling away behind their carefree faces. She tapped the picture, tracing his strong jawline with her fingertip before her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She typed:
Do you have plans for this Saturday?
Nothing. No typing bubbles, no reading receipt. Her heart skipped a beat.
“He’s probably busy. Or he’s ignoring you,” she muttered. “God, Skylar Jane McCoy, you are being paranoid.”
Determinedly, she shoved anxious thoughts aside, closed the texting app, and returned to her manuscript. The blinking cursor beckoned. In her mind’s eye, Rawley stood in for the hero, broad-shouldered, confident, eyes like bottomless pits thatpulled her in. She backspaced, determined to give her character lighter hair, a different height, any eye color but the pitch dark she knew so well. Even so, as she described the character’s build and gait, she caught herself clinging to those impossible eyes, the ones she would never change.
Later, that evening, she sat on the sofa, as she checked her phone for the twentieth time to see if he’d gotten back to her. No texts or calls from him. She knew she had to be patient, he was a busy man with his job.
“How long does it take to type; no,” she muttered, her thumb hovering over his contact name.
With a defeated sigh, she swung her bare feet onto the sofa, laid down against the embroidered throw pillow, and flipped through channels until the colors blurred together. The weight of Cosmo landing on her belly drew a smile to her lips as he kneaded her shirt with his paws before settling into a perfect ball. Skylar ran her fingers through his plush fur, feeling each vibration as he started purring, his blue eyes narrowing to contented slits in pure ecstasy.
After another hour, she turned the TV off, picked Cosmo and her phone up, then retreated to her bedroom. She put the cat on the bed, plugged in her phone, then turned on the TV. She pulled the comforter back, crawled under the sheets, then picked up her laptop from the nightstand and opened it. She could get some writing done. She wasn’t tired but she didn’t feel like sitting in the living room, waiting.
****
Rawley entered the house with a deep sigh that seemed to come from his boots. Even the dogs, usually bouncing balls of fur and energy, didn’t get up from their spots on the rug. They sensed his mood like animals sense an approaching storm. The day had dragged like a plow through rocky soil, yielding nothingbut frustration, and he hadn’t gotten around to running those license tags. That was personal business, forbidden while on duty, but he was home now in the sanctuary of his own four walls, and he was damn well going to run them. His skin felt gritty under his clothes, his stomach hollow as a drum, and Skylar’s message was still unread. When he looked at the antique grandfather clock in the hallway, he groaned. The brass hands pointed accusingly to almost ten p.m.
“A damn, long, unproductive day,” he said, his voice echoing in the empty house as he hung his sweat-stained hat on a hook, collapsed onto the bench by the door and pulled off his scuffed boots with their mud-caked soles. He padded across the floor into the laundry room where the sharp scent of detergent filled his nose as he removed his badge and gun from the holster and placed them on the washing machine. He emptied his pockets, stripped out of his clothes, dropping them into the hamper already overflowing with a bachelor’s neglect. His muscles protested with each step up the stairs, into his bedroom with its unmade king-sized bed, then into the bathroom.
He reached into the glass-doored stall, turned on the water until steam billowed like morning fog, placed his razor and shaving cream on the counter of the sink, then opened the door to the shower. He stepped inside and groaned with pleasure as the water hit him from all directions, washing away the day’s disappointments. A slow grin spread across his face as he thought about sharing the spacious tiled space with Skylar, her blonde hair darkening under the spray.
Damn, he had to text her back. She probably wasn’t happy about the silence, her blue eyes narrowing the way they did when she was annoyed, but he’d been working all day without a break. He was either out at Preston’s sprawling ranch with its endless fences, talking with Agent Saunders on the phone, or going over files until the words blurred together. Every bone in his body feltheavy as cast iron. Lord, he was tired. He chuckled, the sound bouncing off the shower walls.
“Add hungry and horny,” he said to no one but the steam.
Once he washed his hair with the last dregs of shampoo and scrubbed his body with a bar of soap worn thin as a wafer, he opened the door, reached for a black towel, rubbed it over his hair and down his body until his skin tingled, wrapped it around his waist, and strode to the sink. Lord, he hated shaving, the scrape of metal against his stubborn five o’clock shadow, but he’d regret it in the morning if he didn’t. After he finished shaving, wincing at a nick on his jaw, and splashing on aftershave that stung like revenge on the cut, he pulled on a worn T-shirt and sweatpants, walked down the stairs to the kitchen where he made himself a sandwich thick with ham and sharp cheddar, carried it to the living room with a sweating bottle of sweet tea, and sank into his recliner. He sighed as he knew he wouldn’t get to those tags tonight.Shit.
He turned on the TV, the screen flickering to life with colors too bright for his tired eyes, found something to watch that required no thought, then ate his sandwich in four hungry bites, which was really good, or he was that starved, probably both.
He crumpled up the paper towel and placed it on the end table. Picking up his phone, he knew he’d have to text her since it was well past eleven.
Hey, darlin’. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you today. It’s been a damn long day. I just got in an hour ago and heading to bed. Too bad you can’t join me. No plans for Saturday unless you want to do something. Talk soon.
He pushed to his feet with a soft groan and carried the paper towel, tea, and his phone to the kitchen. The floor felt cool against his bare feet. He put the untouched tea in the fridge, tossed the paper towel into the trash, filled a mug with ice and water, then headed upstairs.
After plugging the phone into the charger cord, he pulled the blankets aside, crawled in between the crisp cotton sheets, and reached to turn the bedside lamp out when his phone vibrated with a soft buzz against the wooden nightstand. He picked it up to see a message from Skylar.
I’ve been invited to a cookout at Ryan and Seth’s. I was hoping you’d go with me.
Sure.
Okay. I’ll let you know what time. Get some sleep. Night.
Night, baby.
He turned the phone face down, turned off the light, and fell asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.
The next morning, Rawley pushed through the doors of the building and made his way across the polished marble lobby. He carried a steaming cup of coffee, its rich aroma mingling with the faint scent of floor polish. Reaching the elevator, he pressed the illuminated ‘Up’ arrow and swirled the dark liquid in his cup, careful not to scald his tongue. The chrome doors whispered open, he stepped inside, tapped the button for his floor, and let the doors slide shut behind him. Leaning against the cool steel wall, he closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief that September would arrive next week. August’s heat still clung to the town, and he longed for a crisp breeze.
When the elevator chimed and the doors parted, Rawley strode across the hallway. The pale sunlight filtering through the windows made the air shimmer. He slipped through the glass door of the department, hung his hat on the rack beside his desk, and settled into his swivel chair. He set his coffee on the blotter, turned on the flat-screen monitor, and loaded the tire-track analysis program. He replayed last night’s frustration in his mind, he’d missed tagging those tracks, and company hours offered no reprieve for his impatience.
The software scrolled through data until it froze on a fresh set of impressions. Rawley leaned forward and studied the tracks. These weren’t the deep, rugged grooves of an eighteen-wheeler, these fine, shallow ridges belonged to a smaller truck. He stared at the digital likeness, fingertips tapping on the desk.
