Bad Boy Ink (Get Ink'd #5) - Ali Lyda Page 0,43

the wife. Confirmation that they were working together.”

“We still haven't looked at all of her bank records. We've only focused on the past five months. But I’m pretty sure the professor gave us the permissions for up to two years of bank records. We should look at them and cross-examine them with the doctor’s to see if they were near each other on certain days, or if she’d been at his office. That sort of stuff.”

I was talking faster now, the excitement bubbling in my tummy. It felt like we were close to solving it. That A was so close, I could taste it.

My stomach rumbled at that moment, loud enough that both of us startled. Bryce gave me a knowing smirk.

“Aren't you glad that I brought snacks?” He stared at me with a moment of heated intensity before adding, “Though if your stomach is grumbling that loud, I don't know if cheese and crackers will cut it. I'll go grab us some hot dogs.”

He left before I could protest, making his way to a food cart, so I pulled out my computer and took photos of his flowchart with my phone while I waited. Then I uploaded it and synced it with my data. I also made myself a note about the bank statements and the theory that there were two culprits instead of one.

Bryce had been unable to focus in the food court after the kiss. And as sunlight kissed my skin and my stomach twisted not with hunger, but with anticipation of Bryce's return, I knew that I wouldn't be able to focus anymore today.

If it was anyone but Bryce, the person challenging me for my dream job, I'd consider fucking them just to get this frustrating attraction out of my system. But even the shadow of that idea sent unexpected ripples of desire through me. I was fairly certain it wouldn't get anything out of my system. In fact, it was becoming riskier and riskier just spending time with Bryce, because I liked him more and more the longer I spent getting to know him.

He returned with hot dogs and soda for both of us, and we didn't try to work while we ate. No one wants mustard on their keyboard or notebooks. Unfortunately, Bryce took this as an opportunity to try to get to know me better.

“So, I've met your dad. And Bryan said this job is what's important to you,” Bryce said as he stretched out on the picnic blanket, resting his head in the palm of one hand, looking like we were discussing a movie instead of the job we both wanted.

“Is there a question in that statement?” I was sitting cross-legged, leaning forward a little with my elbows on my knees. Reclining seemed too...comfortable, and I didn’t want Bryce to get any ideas.

“Why is the job so important to you? I still don’t get how this job is what you need.” There was a level of consternation in his tone, like he genuinely didn’t understand it. And why would he? It wasn’t like I was a fount of emotional openness.

And I could have lied. Or changed the subject. But looking at his earnest face, I finished chewing my bite instead and answered.

“I bet it wasn't difficult to tell from my father's attire that I grew up wealthy,” I said. “Like, my parents have a lot of money. But with that money comes prestige and expectations, and my parents, who never anticipated having a child, viewed me as an accessory instead of a person. They resented me, but they wanted to maintain their status, and that required having a son who followed every command and a very specific path in life, including very specific careers.”

“I'm going to guess that forensic computer science is not on their list of acceptable careers.” Bryce didn't say this with any hint of teasing. Instead, his tone was soft and understanding.

I played with the hem of my shirt. “Nope. It was lawyer or doctor or hedge fund manager or get the fuck out of my house, you’re an embarrassment.”

Bryce winced. “And you, bold as brass, chose door number four. But where does the coding and the hacking fit in?”

Memories of sitting alone, in the dark of my room, needing desperately to escape the world my parents were cultivating for me outside of my door flashed through my mind. How miserable I’d been, the pressure scratching at me.

“Some kids escape their lives with television or in books, but I