Page 38 of Stolen By the Hit Man
Tabby lets me go just as Joaquin brings me a hot beverage I didn’t ask for. The off-kilter floorboards groan as he lumbers into the office carrying a chipped mug with an orange-scented tea. I take it, and Joaquin sits across from me on the floor.
The tea is warm and comforting, and I thank him for it.
“How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. I’m okay.”
“Bullshit.”
This puts me on the defensive, but not overly so. “Look. Am I shaken? Yes. Will I need to talk to a professional at some point? Also yes.”
“Well,” he starts. He rubs his hands together, building anticipation. “I have some news that might make you feel better than okay.”
I sit up. “What is it?”
“I just heard from Brian Casey. The county prosecutor won’t be pressing charges.”
I blow out a breath. “Will he want my statement about the body? The one I thought I saw them moving into the road just before the crash?”
Joaquin looks down at his hands, and his shoulders sag a little. “That’s the bad news. No.”
My jaw drops. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. But it sure doesn’t seem right. And on top of that, The Prophet is still missing.”
I’m grateful to no longer be treated as a suspect, but I’m anxious about everything else.
“Can we just be together for one minute with no drama and nothing hanging over our heads?” I complain.
Joaquin smirks. “You’ll be back to your fabulous life before you know it, and have forgotten all about the craziness in Darling Creek.”
It stings that Joaquin didn’t include himself in my fabulous life scenario.
“The doctor said I should take it easy. That means I should ease back into my life. I’ll give it a few days. Maybe a week.”
His eyes glint as he watches me drink my tea. “A week. That might be enough time,” he says.
“Enough time for what?” I ask coyly.
“To carry out my evil plot to keep you in my life.”
“Oh, the old Hallmark plot,” I say, a little relieved.
He arches an eyebrow. “Hallmark plot?”
“You know. Businesswoman gives up her high-powered career in the city to settle down in the country with the charming, be-flannelled local woodworker/handyman/farmer.”
He shrugs. “You caught me. But fair warning, I don’t have a table saw, and I don’t have a green thumb.”
I slap both my cheeks, Home Alone style. “Oh no. You mean if I uproot my life and buy an old bed and breakfast, you won’t be able to help me fix it up? Whatever shall I do?”
He seems genuinely confused by me, and it’s adorable. “Uh…pay people to do that shit? I gotta tell you, though, I’m not much interested in running an inn, or whatever you just said. Doesn’t sound like the wisest move. It would really eat up a lot of time and energy I’d rather spend having sex.”
I laugh, but he’s dead serious.
