Explaining what I was about to do would be difficult if I got caught, but there was no way around it. It had to be done. That didn’t change the fact that I felt like a creep for doing it. Looking more out of place than me at the Grammys, my rusted truck rattled and bumped down a quaint street. Sunlight glinted off the hood and burst through the windshield as I parked in an inconspicuous spot. Sweat gathered at my temples and I swiped it away with a curse.
I never thought I’d get tired of living in paradise, but, tada! Squinting through endless days of perfect weather in the Florida Keys had officially exhausted me after only a few months. My cold, dead heart yearned for…well, not much really.
Hence it being cold.
And dead.
My boots—black, like my soul—thumped onto sizzling pavement as I hopped out of my truck and surveyed the area. Older homes. Gorgeous architecture. A few of them sagged under the heat just like me while the rest had been meticulously cared for over the years. I slipped a pair of sunglasses in place and ambled toward my mark.
601 Swaying Palm Way—the most decrepit house on the street.
A woman sat in a car parked a few houses away with a phone pressed to her ear. Long hair the color of an old penny cascaded down her back. Her jaw was almost too square. Her nose a little upturned. Her lips, full and painted a vivid red. She rolled down the windows as heat shimmered around her.
Her gaze passed over mine. It felt significant enough to almost send me skedaddling back to my truck, until she returned her attention to whoever was on the phone with a roll of her eyes and a pouty frown.
“Get it together, Channing,” I muttered under my breath. My nerves had me imagining importance where it didn’t belong. Whoever she was, the less attention I paid her, the better it would be for both of us.
Summoning nonchalance, I resumed my stroll down the sidewalk and took stock of the home I’d come to see. The front door was in bad shape. One swift kick would take it off the hinges, no doubt about that. The windows lining the porch weren’t set in the frames properly and I’d eat my boots if the locks worked. Which spoke volumes. I loved my boots. They’d carried me around the world without complaint. Each scuff in the leather told a wild story.
“Maxine’s not home.”
I jumped and whirled. How the hell had anyone been able to sneak up on me, let alone someone encased in a velour track suit three sizes too small? If the friction between those thighs wasn’t enough to sound an alarm, the powder blue fabric’s cries for help should have done the trick.
In a perfect world, no one would have seen me near this house.
Too bad we didn’t live in a perfect world—something I knew better than anyone. Life had found every opportunity to teach me that lesson, beating me over the head with it whenever I got too comfortable.
Shrewd black eyes met mine as a nest of crow’s feet wrinkled into a smile. “She’s meeting Carl for lunch, but I’m sure she’ll be back in a couple hours.” A friendly pat on the hand brought images of hand-knit sweaters and toilet paper rolls hidden under crocheted dolls.
Perfect. Casing the joint would take ten minutes, tops. Knowing the old woman who lived there was out for the afternoon meant I didn’t need to be as inconspicuous as I originally thought.
“Thank you, missus…” I lifted a questioning brow, quirking my head like the friendliest puppy on the block.
Nothing to be suspicious of here.
Nothing at all.
Definitely no reason to tell Maxine about the strange man lurking in front of her house.
“Never been a missus, and never will be.” The woman threw her head back and barked laughter. “Though for you, I’d be willing to change my mind. I always did have a thing for dark hair, blue eyes, and tight tushies.”
This earned me another pat on the hand that had me imagining running for my life.
“I’m Delores, by the way.” With a swish of tortured velour and the faintest pinch on my rear end, she ambled down the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner.
Glancing over my shoulder to ensure the woman in the parked car wasn’t watching, I followed the walk to Maxine’s front porch. The steps may have been painted white, though they were so chipped