Page 23 of Undercover
Alec stared at me for a minute, blinked, and then burst into a helpless paroxysm of laughter that I wouldn’t have believed he could produce.
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” he wheezed at last, putting his hand over his eyes and rubbing at the corners of them. “Wow, that’s iron—I can’t—oh,fuck.” He looked at me, his eyes glistening with actual tears of laughter. “Gabe, I promise you, I am not a serial killer. Not secretly. Not any other way. And my only pet as a kid was a cat named Muffin, who died of old age while I was in—a couple of years after I moved out of my parents’ place. Also, for the record, strawberry rhubarb ice cream is an abomination, and you should be ashamed.” He knocked his knee gently into mine. “Seriously. I know saying I’m not isn’t all that reassuring, but what are the odds, right? You’d be more likely to win the lottery.”
The only people I could imagine would know that much about the origins of serial killers were either A, serial killers, or B, FBI profilers. Alec clearly wasn’t an FBI agent.
On the other hand, he seemed to have a fetish for parks, so maybe he just had weird hobbies in general? And he’d named his cat Muffin. That seemed promising. If it was true.
“Full disclosure,” Alec added with a sigh. “My sister named Muffin. But I never even pulled his tail, I promise.”
And he apparently still had that freaky mind-reading thing going. “I’m sure Muffin was grateful.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He sounded really, really intent, in a not-so-reassuringI’m capable of hurting you but I won’tway. And the glint in his dark eyes made me worry a little. “Seriously, I’m—I like you, Gabe.”
Even less reassuring. The implication that he might hurt people he didn’t like didn’t sit so well with me.
But…fuck it. I’d never won the lottery, either. And I preferred intensity to a total lack of anything that might hold my interest.
Alec smiled at me, and that clinched the deal. I hadn’t seen him smile once while I’d been watching him in the bookstore, but he kept smiling atme. Frowning, too, but if I made him smile at least as often…well, that definitely held my interest.
“Why don’t we walk around some more, and you can show me some boats.”
“I hate boats, and so do you,” I grumbled, but I popped the last of my cone into my mouth and got up, taking his hand when he offered it. His fingers closed around mine, warm and strong.
Yeah. I hated boats, but I could get over it if he held my hand like that the whole time.
8
Gabe
“Dad wants you there, and so you’re going to be there, end of story.” I pulled the phone away from my ear, stuck out my tongue at it even though my brother couldn’t see it, and put the phone back up to my head in time to hear, “…someone who’s presentable. No weird hair.”
My blood pressure ratcheted up another impossible notch. Could Dave hear my teeth grinding? Almost certainly. My downstairs neighbor could probably hear my teeth grinding.
I’d missed some of what he said, but hearing it was superfluous. Same old song and dance. Fix your hair, take out your piercings, date an investment banker or a boring old-money yachter and stop embarrassing the Middletons.
“Myhair is ‘weird,’ Dave,” I gritted out. “It’s purple right now. With some teal streaks. And I’m not dyeing it for some fucking shitshow of a cocktail party where I don’t know anyone and no one cares if I’m there anyway.”
“You’re coming. And of course you have to dye your—”
“Well, I’m not!” That came out in practically a shout, and I jumped off the couch, pacing across my living room. “I’m not coming, I’m not dyeing my hair, and I’m not bringing anyone. Obviously. Because I’m not coming.”
I had a sudden, breathtaking vision of showing up with Alec on my arm, Alec with his scowl and his unshaven jaw and his leather jacket. He’d scandalize them all even without anything weird about his hair. Just the way he’d be dressed…
And then I had another, even more breathtaking mental vision of Alec in a tuxedo looking exactly like James Bond—the Goldilocks version of James Bond. Not too hairy, not too smirky, just right.
But no. I didn’t know him that well yet, but he’d been low-key and unpretentious so far. He hadn’t asked a single question, not even obliquely, about my finances, and he’d paid more than his share on dates. A gold-digger he was not; I could sniff one of those out at a hundred yards. And he didn’t seem to have any interest in status or showing off, which made him even more perfect.
And made him extremely unlikely to want to go with me, even if I got up the courage to ask.
Dave had kept squawking in my ear, and I tuned back in with an effort. “…need to make an effort sometimes, Gabe. Dad needs the whole family there. This investment would position the company very favorably to…” Aaand I tuned back out again.
I strode into the kitchen and put the phone on speaker on the table, so I could ignore Dave while rummaging for a bottle of wine. Screw it. It was five o’clock somewhere—out in the Atlantic, I guessed, since it was two in the afternoon here. If I had a boat, I could go there.
Ugh, fuck boats, and fuck Dave.
Speaking of. By his tone, he’d starting building up to a crescendo.
“…I suppose if you must show up looking like you usually do, Dr. Wilson won’t be too put off, since he spent so many years teaching at Burlington University and he’s used to scruffy students. But you need to be there, end of discussion!”
