Page 37 of Memory of Murder
A knock on the connecting door made her jump.
She pressed a hand to her chest and sucked in the breath that had deserted her. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the door and opened it. Better to keep her head out of those dreamy places.
He smiled. He really had the nicest smile. Nice lips too. Great eyes. Anne almost sighed out loud. She chased away the thoughts.
“What’s up?” She was tired…mentally and physically. Not herself. It wasn’t like her to fantasize about random men. Not that there was really anything at all random about this one.Enough, Anne!
“I thought I’d order dinner in. Have it delivered since there’s no restaurant on the property.”
She frowned. “I know this place is kind of low end. I hope it’s okay. I figured it wouldn’t be somewhere they would consider—at least not the first place on their list anyway.” She laughed at herself. “I may have read too many mystery novels.”
He chuckled. “It was a good choice. Really.”
“Thanks.” She relaxed a little. “So…food. What did you have in mind?”
“Chinese? Mexican? Mediterranean? Regular old American? There’s quite a list who deliver.”
“Chinese. Pick a variety of things, and we’ll share.” Immediately the image of her using chopsticks to feed him came to mind. She banished it. She so had to get her head on straight. Maybe it was the stress. Had to be.
“Another good choice.” He tapped the screen of his cell phone and started the process.
She left him in the doorway between their rooms and went back to unbagging her purchases. It was either that or stare at his perfect profile while he ordered their dinner.Strange behavior, Anne. Apparently digging into her mother’s sad love story was getting to her…making her desperate.
That had to be it. Otherwise, what in the world had her suddenly daydreaming about an encounter with the man assigned to investigate her case? She decided it was that age-old problem of needing to take her mind off her troubles. Hadn’t she learned that in Psych 101 back during her freshman year of college?
Either that or the other age-old suggestion that barreling toward thirty had her biological clock acting up. At this point she hadn’t even considered children.
No. Stop it.
She’d been dateless for ages now. Hadn’t been kissed or hugged by a man in months—maybe a year. She groaned. Pretty pathetic. But no reason to go all desperate and sex crazed. She wandered to the bathroom to stash her necessities. With no room on the tiny sink, she lined them up on the toilet tank lid.
She considered the tub. She loved its curves and the deeper depth. Maybe she’d have a soak later. She needed to relax, and a leisurely bath might just do the trick. Get her mind off the ancient history of an abandoned baby and the present dilemma of a lonely woman.
Her eyes rolled. Pathetic.
Back in her room, Jack waited at the shared door, one broad shoulder braced against the doorframe. Could he not look so…sexy? Another groan welled inside her, but she tamped it down.
“Thirty-to-forty minutes,” he announced.
“Thanks.”
She stood there a moment, uncertain what to do. Maybe he’d say something, get a conversation going about the investigation. Otherwise, her mounting tension would continue. She was obviously going through something, and it was ridiculous. She was no teenager, and this was no game.
“You handling today okay? I know some of it wasn’t exactly comfortable.”
She lifted one shoulder and let it fall, fixed her attention on the events of the day. “I had this idea of how things would go.” She dropped onto the foot of the bed—thankfully the mattress seemed fairly comfortable. “But I was way off in my assumptions.”
“You thought—” he stepped into her space, pulled the chair from the small desk and took a seat “—you’d find the same thing the detective did. You’d feel you had done your due diligence, and then you could go home and put this all behind you.”
Wow. He was a mind reader too.
“Something like that.”
“Assuming the most complicated situation or ending isn’t the route our minds usually take.” He braced his forearms on his thighs. “But sometimes that’s just where life takes us.”
She tried to ignore how their knees almost touched. The room was so small the end of the bed was only about three or four feet from the desk and the connecting door. But she wasn’t complaining. His nearness was comforting. It made her feel warm and safe. Gave her the courage to keep her chin up and her shoulders square in this situation so alien to her. Her only experience with this sort of thing was the occasional true crime documentary.
“I thought I knew what happened. The woman who gave birth to me killed the man who fathered me. For reasons I would likely never know or understand.” She shook her head. “She’d never written to me. Wouldn’t see me when I tried to visit her. I assumed she never wanted me—the same story some of my foster mothers told me while they were pointing out how happy I should be to have what they provided. Which wasn’t always what a child needed.”
