Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Finally, Huck lifted his head, his eyes glittering. “You back with me now?”
Laurel blinked, her mind still struggling to catch up. “What?”
His grin was lazy, satisfied. “I told you I’d pull you out of that head of yours. You’re welcome.”
She laughed, her body feeling lighter. “You’re a dangerous man.”
“Not to you, Laurel Snow.”
Laurel didn’t argue. Because he was right.
Chapter 23
Hours after he’d taken her on the sofa, Huck crossed his living room and handed Laurel a glass of cabernet. His fingers brushed hers, and he was glad he’d taken her out of her head for a short time. She was so damned focused, her eyes remaining narrowed and distant even as she took the glass.
“We’ll probably need it.” He dropped down beside her on the old leather couch. It groaned beneath his weight, same as it always did. He kicked off his boots and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, and caught Laurel’s glance dropping to his socks. She had that half-exasperated, half-amused look she always got when she noticed the holes near his toes. What was he supposed to do? Buy new socks every time a toe popped through? Hell, they were still good. Mostly.
He reached for the remote and turned up the volume. The damn show’s theme song blared through the room, all dramatic synth and overly sharp violins meant to set the mood. Huck rolled his shoulders, the tension already curling up his spine like barbed wire.
Rachel Raprenzi’s The Killing Hour. The title flashed across the screen, stark and bold, making sure everyone knew this was meant to be important.
Rachel appeared, perfectly coiffed and styled, draped in a navy blue suit with silver jewelry that glittered too much under the studio lights. Everything about her was calculated—from her soft blond hair to the way she widened her eyes to feign sincerity. To anyone else, she probably looked polished and genuine. To Huck, she looked like a vulture.
But the star of tonight’s show was Abigail Caine.
She sat beside Rachel, posture flawless, hair swept up into a messy bun that was anything but casual. Her green dress softened her appearance and made her look delicate and even breakable. Huck noted the details immediately. The muted color scheme, the soft pink of her nails instead of her usual dark polish. It was a costume, and she wore it well.
But the eyes were the tell. Always were. Abigail’s eyes were too sharp, too calculating. One blue, one green, and both trained like loaded weapons. She was playing everyone in that studio.
“Interesting,” he muttered, taking a hefty swallow of his wine. It tasted expensive, rich and smooth, but he couldn’t appreciate it. His jaw had already started clenching from the instinctive reaction to smelling bullshit. “This is going to suck. At least your mom and Monty are out of range. How many miles between Genesis Valley and St. Thomas?”
Laurel snorted. “Six thousand, one hundred, and fifteen kilometers.”
“What’s that in miles?” he drawled.
“Thirty-eight hundred,” she murmured absently.
He needed to get her out of her head. “How many people in the last week did you see who wore both purple and blue?”
She blinked. “I’m fine, Huck.”
“So answer the question, Ms. Genius.”
She rolled those spectacular eyes. “Twenty-seven.”
He paused. “That’s a lot.”
“Not really. Blue and purple are the school colors for the middle school, and I saw the soccer team on the field the other day preparing for a match.”
Of course she had. He grinned and focused back on the television.
Rachel launched into her opener, her smile locked in place with the same professionalism as a news anchor covering a devastating tragedy. “As I’ve hinted at all week, we have Dr. Abigail Caine and her attorney, Henry Vexler, from Vexler and Symons.”
Vexler looked polished. Hell, the man probably cost more per hour than Huck made in a week. Black suit, green-and-silver tie perfectly chosen to complement Abigail’s dress. Staged unity. Huck’s fingers twitched. Abigail hadn’t left a single detail to chance.
“Let’s start with a little history,” Rachel said, leaning forward just enough to seem engaged. “You grew up in Genesis Valley, correct?”
“I lived in Genesis Valley until . . . maybe I was eleven.” Abigail’s voice lifted, just the slightest tremor at the end, her gaze pleading for understanding. Huck scoffed. She was laying it on thick. “Then my mother unfortunately died, and my father shipped me off to college. Overseas.”
Huck noted how her shoulders dropped slightly to show the supposed vulnerability of a young girl sent away. Manipulation. She was damn good at it, but he saw the glint in her eyes. The intelligence and careful engineering of every syllable she spoke.
“What degrees do you have, just out of curiosity?” Rachel asked, as if the question hadn’t been rehearsed and cleared by Abigail’s team.
“Oh, I have a few doctorates,” Abigail said, waving a hand like it was nothing. She’d painted her nails a demure pink. Too innocent. Too unlike her. “Computational neuroscience, social and decision neuroscience, game theory, biochemistry, and philosophy with a practical ethics emphasis.”