It was past time to do a deeper dive on Blake Malone. Tracers, my favorite search engine, didn’t show any additional residences, but it did indicate that the Florida home’s property taxes were delinquent. Only one vehicle, the SUV that Trista drove, but I already knew the Lexus was being leased to Malone Construction, as was the apartment across the hall.
No arrests. Not even a traffic violation, other than a speeding ticket three years ago.
He had had only three employers of record: a movie theater when he was a teenager, a sandwich shop in his college years, and then Malone Construction. Nepotism at its finest, I supposed.
The Malone Construction website said he was on personal leave, though, so it seemed nepotism stretched only so far.
I turned my attention to my Malone.
Tiberius James Malone, born on January 25, 1981, in Santa Rosa, California.
He leased an apartment in California and drove an older-model Mustang convertible. His mother’s maiden name really was Franklin. She had been married to Malone’s father for almost forty years.
My heart leaped with hope, then thudded with the remembrance that our situation was temporary. More importantly, I was not supposed to jump from one long-term relationship to another for a variety of reasons.
I needed to get out there and do things for myself, so I would do Malone at his earliest convenience. I would not, as Salcedo suggested, catch feelings, either. We were two consenting adults. He had already shown concern for my welfare, and I was going to enjoy the arrangement he had offered me without thinking of anything more.
I didn’t need anything more.
I didn’twantanything more.
Relationships only led to heartache. Sexy times led to orgasms.
Besides, based on the years I’d wasted on Ken, the longer the relationship, the fewer the sexy times, so better tonothave a forty-year marriage.
Keep telling yourself that, Stella. Keep making those rationalizations to cover up for the fact you’ve always wondered if things would’ve been different if either your nana or your mother had stayed married. Keep telling yourself that marriage isn’t important since—
Nope. Not going there. Not doing it. Absolutely not.
Focus.
Other than having way too many phone numbers for my liking, Tiberius James Malone was squeaky clean. No arrests, convictions, bankruptcies, speeding tickets. No mortgage. He voted frequently—yay for civic duty—and appeared to have at least partial ownership in the company where he worked, Chateau Cybersecurity.
And that was that.
Trista called just as I was trying to decide which frozen meal I wanted for lunch. “Is he still there?”
“Afraid not,” I said as I watched my entrée whirl around in the microwave. “I got his license plate, but it was a rental.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t the cousin?”
“Positive.” I almost told Trista that I knew the cousin very well, but that felt like the sort of information that should be on a need-to-know basis. Trista didn’t need to know even a tenth of the things I knew about Malone. Not about his tattoo and certainly not about his carnal promises.
I shuddered.
“How did he look?”
Delicious. Fit, but not so cut he would be cranky from lack of carbs—
She’s talking about Blake, Stella.“Uh, pretty pleased with himself.”
She sighed. “No. Like, what was he wearing?”
I bit back any sarcastic remarks about how the Bel Air Apartments weren’t exactly the Met Gala. Instead, I detailed what Blake was wearing, down to his expensive shoes and watch.
“What about his hair?”
“Uh, hanging over his collar. Didn’t seem to fit with the rest of his vibe.”
