He’sworth everything.
Chapter eighteen
Kendrick
It takes me asecond to orient myself and work out why I’m suddenly awake. Spencer looms over me, a hand braced on my side, trapping me in between his arms. I jerk in surprise.
“Jesus, Spence, what the fuck?” What time is it? A quick roll of my head says way too fucking early. Barely one in the morning. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says simply.
I’m not awake enough for any of this. I make a futile effort to blink the sleep out of my eyes. “What question?” I ask groggily. “Can’t this wait till morning?”
“It is morning.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, comprehension still a struggle. “More morning than this.”
“You didn’t say yes.”
“Did you ask me a question?” He could have sung “The Bare Necessities,” complete with dance choreography, naked, and I honestly might not remember.
“Last night I did. I think you’ve had enough time for your brain to move back into your head.”
What? Oh. The proposal if that’s what we can call it. “C’mon, Spence, you can’t be serious.” I get being a little emotional in the heat of the moment. What we did in the shower was big. A step we’ve never taken before. If he needs to talk aboutthat, then I’m here for him even if it’s at stupid o’clock in the morning. But marriage? That’s not early-a.m. conversation. It’s not any-a.m. conversation. Or even p.m. Why are we talking about it at all?
“You’re starting to hurt my feelings.” The hint of hurt in his tone adds to his words, and my gut twists. Fucking hell. Okay, there’s no getting back to sleep; he’s clearly too keyed up.
I push myself up into a sitting position and cup his cheek. “You really want to get married?”
With no hesitation he says, “Yes.” His eyes are clear, determination in the big brown irises. How long has he been awake, thinking about this? I hope he didn’t get up and have any coffee.
Marriage isn’t a step I ever thought we’d take. Not a stepIever thought I’d take. He’s never mentioned wanting to before. “Alright.” If it makes him happy, then I’ll do pretty much anything. Walking down the aisle with him won’t be a hardship.
“Alright?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Before he can respond to that, his phone rings on the bedside table. He swipes it up without looking away from me. “Hunter; Ken and I are getting married.”
I snort at his ridiculousness. He’s probably going to use it as his voicemail message. Outgoing email.
“Congratulations,” Hunter says without skipping a beat. “Don’t forget to send me an invite.”
“Is this a social call?” I ask dryly. Not at this hour, it isn’t.
“Irene Abrams was murdered in her home late last night.”
I share a look with Spencer. That wasn’t on my list of possible scenarios. She was asuspect, not a victim. “Same method?” I ask, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and glancing around for my pants.
Are we looking at some kind of serial killer? An older woman doesn’t fit the pattern, but sometimes their tastes change. Or they switch course for a reason, none of them ever good. Throw people off their scent, emotions running high, they’re getting angry and sloppy. It makes them unpredictable, and I don’t like unpredictability.
“No.”
Shit. That doesn’t fit the pattern either. “You want us to go there?”
“Yes. This is an official murder investigation this time, and we can’t do anything about that. Greer and Six are there; the same officers who were there for Veronica were called to this one, and they called Riley.”
“Henry not with Greer? If it’s official, won’t he need his partner there?” Is that how it works? I’m too tired for my neurons to be firing properly.
