Page 24 of Into These Eyes
I shouldn’t be checking her out, but fuck, I’m enjoying the view. She’s hot, and the last time I’d been privileged enough to be in the vicinity of a sexy woman, had been at the Restorative Justice meeting.
Unfortunately, she’s clearly got the wrong caravan.
Turning to face me again, I think she’s looking me over, but I can’t be sure with her eyes hidden by those large, impenetrable sunglasses.
“What?” I almost bark as I swallow the last of my toast.
“I was told this is where I’d find Gavin Lake.”
Okay, so sheishere for me. On edge, I’m unsure why someone like her is standing on my non-existent doorstep. One thing I do know, is it can’t be for anything good.
Then she takes off her sunglasses and squints at me.
Holyfuck.
No wonder I think she’s hot. I’vealwaysthought so.
Jamie Evans.
No doubt about it.
I should’ve known by the colour of her hair, but I’ve never seen it set ablaze in the sunlight.
“Miss Evans?” I ask, stunned.
Her eyes narrow in confusion. “How do you know my name?”
She doesn’t recognise me. I shouldn’t be surprised. Six months ago, she saw a prisoner with a shaved head and an unkept beard. That’s who she’s expecting. But I don’t look like that guy anymore.
“Because I’m Gavin Lake,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen with surprise. Then she stares into mine, searching, assessing, identifying. Shoving the sunglasses back on her face, she crosses her arms.
“Oh … I … ah … Sorry. Can we talk inside?”
Of all the people in the world, she’s the last one I expected at my door. This is going to be anything but pleasant.
“Why’re you here, Miss Evans?”
A wolf-whistle pierces the air again. Darting my gaze across the dirt track and grass that separates the caravans, I spot scum-of-the-earth Jake Fletcher sitting on his steps, dragging on a cigarette.
“Gotcha self a high-class hooker there, Lake?”
Shit.
Stiffening slightly, her fingers dig into her crossed arms. “I have some information I think you’ll want to hear,” she says quickly. “But I’d feel more comfortable talking to you privately.”
The woman who’s hated me for the past sixteen years, now wants to be alone with me in a cramped space? It makes no sense at all, but I suppose there’s only one way to find out what she wants.
As I step back to let her in, Fletcher calls out, “Fuck her hard, man. I wanna see that tin-can rockin’.”
Fucking prick.
Retreating to the kitchen, I lean my hip against the counter, hoping to God she puts my red face down to the stifling heat. As much as I’ve fantasised about fucking her hard—and every other possible way—I most certainly don’t want her to know that.
She enters slowly, letting the door spring shut, heels clicking on the cheap linoleum as she takes a few steps inside. With the door closed, the dimness forces her to remove her sunnies.
I wait, and while I do, her uncertain eyes flit around the tiny space, taking in the bed behind me and the small table to the right. She shows no disgust, no reaction at all as far as I can tell. Apart from the way she’s clutching her handbag to her stomach like it’s some sort of barrier between us.
