Page 96 of Finding Denver
I shouldn’t get these updates, I know that. I know he can’t be mine. I can’t take him from the only life he’s ever known, especially not into mine, but I want these pieces of him. The knowledge that he’s safe and happy.
“They’re here,” Lewis says, and I take a breath, locking my phone and pocketing it.
A truck backs into the delivery area and shuts off before the passenger side door opens. A tall, gangly blond man gets out, his coat far too thin for the weather. He’s good looking in an overly caffeinated kinda way, and might be a few years older than me, or ten. When he closes the truck door behind him, he takes out a cigarette, cupping the flame as he lights it.
He faces me and pauses, the cigarette at his lips. “You’re not a McEwan.”
“Not by blood,” I say sweetly, a line I’ve said four times today.
Except this guy doesn’t laugh. He takes a long drag of the cigarette, blowing the smoke in the direction of the door as he approaches. My expression is one of total disinterest, complete boredom, because any whiff of fear, he’ll take advantage. I don’t need to be afraid when four men—five, if you count Charlie as two—are ready to kill for me at any moment. But a sliver of fear is always sensible.
“Garrison.” He extends a long-fingered hand, and I shake it—and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Something is wrong.
This is the biggest delivery, and he’s travelled thefarthest. It’s why it’s the last stop on my list, to allow time for traffic, border control, or any other delays.
But his hand is ice cold.
I suppose he could have stopped for gas or a break, but not long enough to have hands this cold. The condensation in the car tells me the heaters are on, but he probably didn’t have time to warm his hands against them. He likely hijacked this truck close to the city. He’ll take the guns, and the money, and he’ll probably kill me.
I’m not in the right mood or the right outfit to die.
“I’m Denver.”
His brows raise. “Not Denver Luxe.”
“The one and only.”
“Well, fuck me,” he says, flicking his cigarette. “Word on the street is your husband is looking for you. What are you doing all the way out here?”
“Pick that up.”
The men who were about to open the truck freeze, and I finally smile, my expression warming. Garrison eyes me with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.
“Excuse me?”
“The cigarette. That floor just got swept. Pick it up,” I say. “You can’t be messy and late. I dislike littering. I dislike tardiness even more.”
He stares at me for a solid twelve seconds, as if he thinks I’ll change my mind. I don’t. This man isn’t who he says he is, and the real Garrison is likely dead, so I already know this won’t end well.
If he bends down for that cigarette, Lewis will shoot him, because I used the word tardiness, a word I fucking hate and chose as my safe word. Charlie, who has been listening in the back will know, and so will the other men. So much for a smooth day.
The door to the building opens, but I keep my attention on the fake Garrison.
“Denver, didn’t we hire you for your manners?” Colt asks, and I fight a bigger smile as he approaches. He’s home. Finally. “You’re being a little rude.”
I glance at him. He’s in his usual smart suit and dark coat, but after the days we’ve been apart, there’s something more comforting in his appearance. I pout. “Sorry, sir.”
Colt stands at my side, and I don’t need to say the words I can simply portray with my raised brows.Why are you here?
He gives me a small shrug.I was in the neighborhood.
I roll my eyes.Liar.
“It’s probably for the best I deal with this guy,” Garrison says, nodding at Colt. “Not really a fan of the female folk.”
Oh. He’s one of those.
