Page 97 of Conrad

Aw,and that was the twist, wasn’t it? If he wanted to keep her safe, he needed to find out who was chasing her down, setting her home on fire, and trying to run her over. “That is a very bad idea.”

She leaned forward. “But you still want to do it, don’t you?”

“If it means keeping you safe . . .” He shook his head. “How much trouble are you going to get me into, woman?”

Her eyes glowed. “Thanks, King Con. You’re my hero.”

And what was he supposed to do with that?

* * *

It’d bothered her all night—the scream into the air as she’d pulled away in the parking lot. Sheknewthat voice.

Or maybe she simply feared she did because Conrad’s question about who would benefit by killing Edward had stuck inside her like a burr.

Her father. Who helped run the board of the major stockholder of the company Edward had helped build.

Had he known that Edward planned on selling it to MetaGrid, Quantex’s competitor?

Except he’d loved Edward, right? He’d paid for Edward’s schooling, been supportive of the man’s engagement to Tia.

It didn’t make sense, and she’d tossed the night away in Conrad’s spare room, in his überluxurious king bed, staring at the beams in his slant-vaulted ceiling, their conversation lighting up inside her.

And not just the speculation about Edward’s killer or the anticipation of breaking into Walsh’s home, but the words from Conrad when he’d accused her of lying.

Of faking their relationship.

“Nothing about that kiss, about us, was ever fake.”And she had nothing for his soft words, the way they’d crept inside her, found tender, raw soil.“I don’t need a reason to be with you.”

The man could make her weep, especially when he’d made her the extra bed and told her to not be afraid. The way he’d stood in the hallway, an outline of safety and protection, when he’d mentioned that his bedroom was right down the hall, and if she got scared, to just shout.

Since she’d promised no more faking, she couldn’t suddenly scream just to test his words, right?

So she’d stared at the ceiling instead, also trying to figure out how to get into Walsh’s house. She’d pulled up his location in a western suburb—he lived in an older house, remodeled, but the windows looked original, which meant the locks could be old . . .

Now she’d turned into a cat burglar.

What if Walsh was simply home, and she knocked on the front door?

She turned that what-if over in her head for a long time, trying out the scenario where he would have texted her, set her up like bait, then sent a henchman to do her in.

That nearly made her send out a real scream, but by then it was five a.m., so she sent a text to Clarice.

Penelope

Back off the social media posts. It’s over.

That should make Conrad happy. No more faking for the public.

Penelope finally smelled bacon frying and rolled out of bed. Probably needed a shower, but she settled for clean teeth (he’d left her a new brush and paste in the bathroom), pulled back her hair, and emerged feeling a little edgy, hungry, and ready to commit crimes.

The first might be stealing pieces of crispy bacon from the tray on the counter. Conrad stood at the stove, wearing faded jeans, a Blue Ox T-shirt that stretched over his chest and his muscled biceps, and wielding a pancake spatula.

Eggs sizzled in the cast-iron pan.

The barest shimmer of sunlight cast across the lake, the night still heavy around them even in the wee hours of the morning. She glanced at the clock.

“Six a.m. You always get up this early?”

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