He so totally followed me.
Often.
Shit.
My stare turned to a glare, I bit off a huge chunk of buttery, marmalade coated toast and said sharply through it, “Fine.”
“Speed limit, as in, you’ll go the.”
I chewed, swallowed and asked through slitted eyes, “Jesus, are you a Grandpa?”
“Daughter’s twelve, son’s ten so no, not yet, thank f**k.”
I didn’t even blink. It cost me but I didn’t even blink.
Fuck, he had kids.
Fuck, that killed.
“Ten miles over,” I offered.
“Five miles,” he countered.
“Seven.”
He grinned and I didn’t blink again but that killed too. With me, he used to grin a lot, smile a lot, laugh a lot. Even so, each one was precious. He’d been beautiful. All of those transformed his features so he was magnificent.
Age and scars hadn’t changed that. Not even a little bit. He still had great, even, strong white teeth. Fantastic lips. Strong, expressive features.
Magnificent.
“Deal,” he grunted and moved to my girl.
I moved to her too and juggled my breakfast (even though it was past noon) in order to get in. With the coffee between my thighs and the toast between my teeth, I started her up and pulled out maybe a hair faster than was needed.
That said, that was how I usually pulled out.
“Jesus,” Creed muttered.
I bit back a smile, changed gears, shot forward on a screech of tires then took a bite out of my toast and drove one handed.
“Right, catch me up,” I ordered.
“You first,” he replied.
I glanced to the side.
Shit, Tucker Creed was sitting beside me in my car.
Shit!
I buried that and asked, “Me first, what?”
“You first. I’m ride-along, maybe it would be good to know what I’m ridin’ into.”
“Hit The Retreat. Check in at the office. If there’s time, check in on Serena. After that, Knight,” I told him.
“You still on The Retreat job?” he asked, exposing just how much he’d looked into me which meant just how often he’d followed me.