Page 51 of Dirty Cowboy

Her eyes narrow. “Why didn’t youtellme? And he has a house nearby?”

“It’s not a house anymore,” I say. “Just rubble.”

She crosses her arms. “Not the point, Eric. I thought you said he was dangerous. You said you wanted Annabelle safe.”

I exhale, rubbing a hand down my face. “It’s been twenty-seven years, Emma.”

Her head tilts. “Interesting howquicklyyou came up with that number. Keeping track or something?”

Damn, she looks cute when she’s pissed. But Huntz hasnothingto do with why she’s here.

“Everything I’ve done was to protect Annabelle,” I say. “And you’re the one who wanted to find him.”

“What do you mean,everything you’ve done?”

Tension creeps up my neck, settling behind my eyes.

“Damn it, Emma.” I push off the couch, pacing. “Without evidence, the law can’t touch him.”

Her jaw tightens. “What about your testimony?”

“Statute of limitations. It’s too late.”

She exhales sharply. “So that’s it? We just leave him alone?”

“That’sexactlyit,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “It’s a stalemate. The best thing we can do is keep our distance, and he’ll do the same.”

Her eyes flick over me. “Sounds like you’ve talked to him.”

I clench my jaw. “Some time ago, I warned him to stay away from Annabelle. As long as we leave him alone, he won’t bother us.” I glance at the kitchen table. “I saw your note.”

“Are you changing the subject?”

“Absolutely.”

She levels me with a stare. Then, finally, she sighs. “All right. I’ll drop it for now. But don’t think you’re off the hook.”

I smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She picks up a folded blanket, smoothing it out before draping it over the armrest.

“Did you sign the letter?” she asks.

“No. Wanted to wait for you.” I cross my arms. “What’s gonna happen when your brothers find out?”

“I’ll worry about themafterI have my partnership. Now sign.”

I pick up the pen, scribbling my name onto the dotted line. Emma snatches up my shirt from the back of the chair and tosses it at me.

“Put on some clothes. It’s way past lunchtime, and I’m starving.”

I fumble with the fabric, shrugging it onto my shoulders. Her eyes linger as I button up, her lip tight between her teeth, and I catch her staring. She spins toward the fridge, yanking the door open like it’s a shield.

“So,” she says, peeking out from behind it. “What are you cooking for me?”

I lean against the counter.

“Omelette?”

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