I Think I Love You Read online

  “No, I sold it a couple of years ago. That was one great car, though.” He sucked on the toothpick. “Yeah, that car saw some good times.”

  She had the feeling they were both thinking of Tobi Evans.

  “Is she remarried?” Regina asked him.

  “No,” he said thoughtfully.

  Five minutes in, and she had him fantasizing about another woman. That had to be some kind of record. Granted, though, she hadn’t left him many memories to pine over.

  They had to cruise town once just to make sure everything was contained before going to dinner. The streets of Monroeville were hopping, filled with gleaming sports cars filled with gleaming teenagers. Trucks were a favored mode of transportation, too, and Pete reported that neon-colored motorcycles, known as crotch rockets, were becoming all the rage. The girls looked impossibly thin and half-dressed; the boys, buff and tattooed. She felt positively retro by the time Pete backed into a parking place at the Crab Hut.

  The Crab Hut was also hopping, and a bit pungent. Beach music played over the speakers, with an occasional country song thrown in to keep the locals happy. They decided to sit on the patio and split a bucket of crab legs. She ordered a beer; he ordered iced tea since he was on call. His screeching radio went on the table between them.

  “Man, it’s hot,” he said, wiping at his forehead with his paper napkin.

  “I forget about the heat,” she said. “It always surprises me when I come home.”

  “You look good in a sweat,” he observed, taking in her cleavage.

  “Um, thank you.” She shifted on the metal chair and decided to do it before she lost her nerve—tell him off the record that she alone had witnessed Lyla’s murder and get his advice on how to proceed. It was the only way she could assuage her conscience and still protect her sisters. “Listen, Pete, I’d like to talk to you about something that goes way back.”

  “Okay, shoot.” He got a goofy grin on his face, as if he expected her to say she regretted not letting him go to third base when they were dating in high school and she was back to make it up to him. She stared at the toothpick and had second thoughts. Maybe she wasn’t ready to report the incident… yet. Maybe she simply needed to run it by an objective party to see if she sounded certifiable.

  She glanced around them at the crowded tables, looking for… she didn’t know what. The answer? A revelation? All she saw were couples and families sucking crab legs…

  And Mitchell Cooke. He was strolling toward them, wearing a Jeopardy game show T-shirt and a thousand-watt smile. Her blood pressure skyrocketed.

  He sidled up to their table. “Hi there.”

  “Hello,” she murmured, and not pleasantly.

  “It’s Peter, isn’t it?” Mitchell said to the other man.

  “Pete, actually.”

  Mitchell clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m Mitchell.”

  “I remember.” Pete looked befuddled.

  “I just came out to get some dinner and a beer,” Mitchell said. “But it sucks eating by yourself.”

  Regina poked her tongue into her cheek. “I would ask you to join us, but—”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” He pulled up a chair between them, forcing Pete to scoot farther around the table. “Wow, lucky I saw you guys sitting here.”

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “Lucky. We already placed our order.”

  “I’ll just add mine when the waitress comes back.” He tipped up his beer bottle for a swig. “Were you two waxing nostalgic about proms and first kisses?” He laughed at his own wit.

  She wanted to crack something of his with her crab leg tool.

  Pete’s radio belched static; then a woman’s voice said his name. “I need to check in on the car radio,” he said, talking to Regina but looking at Mitchell. “I’ll be right back.”

  She waited until he was out of sight before turning on Mitchell. “You followed us!”

  He was the picture of calm innocence. “That’s not true. There aren’t that many places in town to eat, and I had a hankering for legs.” He tilted his head and scrutinized hers. “Nice dress.”

  “Is your MO to exasperate a woman into your bed?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Not even.”

  “Look, we were getting somewhere today before Mr. Calvin arrived and your dad put in an appearance. I think we owe it to ourselves to play it out. Pete will understand.”

  “Drink your beer, then get lost.”

  He sighed his acquiescence.

  She noticed an absence at her crotch that seemed unusual when Mitchell was around. “Where’s your dog?”

  “I left him in the hotel room with the air-conditioning and a big pillow.” He wagged his eyebrows.

  She ignored him and swallowed a mouthful of beer. To her relief, Pete returned, but as soon as she looked at his face, she knew their date was over.

  “Tractor trailer carrying paint turned over on the connector. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to take you home.”

  “No injuries, I hope?”

  “No, apparently just orange paint as far as the eye can see.”

  “I’ll take Regina home,” Mitchell told him.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Pete said.

  “But she hasn’t even had dinner.”

  “We’ll get it to go.”

  “Guys? I’m sitting right here.”

  They looked at her.

  “What do you want to do?” Pete asked.

  She drank from her beer. Well, she didn’t want to have dinner with Mitchell, but compared to going home to spend the evening with her sisters, he was the lesser of two evils. “I’ll stay, Pete. We’ll do this again sometime.”

  He nodded morosely and left.

  Mitchell gave her a wry smile. “It would’ve been much simpler if you’d just said yes when I first asked you to dinner. But I’m not complaining.” He rubbed his hands together. “So, what am I having to eat?”

  “We’re splitting a bucket of crab legs.”

  “Sounds great.”

  She pointed to his shirt. “You’re a fan of Jeopardy?”

  “No. But I was a contestant ages ago.”

  She was slightly impressed. “Did you win?”

  “Sure.”

  Of course. “I take it the Final Jeopardy question wasn’t about Joe DiMaggio?”

  He angled his beer bottle at her. “I was testing you with that All-Star Game remark. If you hadn’t passed, I wouldn’t be here.”

  She smirked. “I don’t peg you as being quite that discriminating.”

  “Oh, but I am.”

  Despite her resolve to resist him, Regina had to admit the man was pulling her chain. His handsome face would be easy enough to dismiss if he were dim-witted or mean-spirited or lascivious. But dammit, his mind was sharp, his interaction with her dad and Mr. Calvin was gentle, and his sexy bantering left her stomach tingling low with promise. Thank goodness their bucket o’ crab legs arrived, so she could stop thinking about the magnetism of Mitchell Cooke, former bad boy.

  The waitress looked back and forth between them. “Wasn’t there another guy sitting here before?”

  “He was just holding my place,” Mitchell assured her.

  They both ordered another beer and started cracking handfuls of bright coral-colored legs—her with the tool, him with his bare hands. Of course.

  “So you grew up here?” he asked, dredging a strip of white meat through drawn butter.

  She nodded. “I was born here.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Cissy grew up here. John grew up in Virginia.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “Dad went to college with Cissy’s brother.”

  “That would be Lawrence Gilbert?”

  “Right.”

  “What’s he like, your uncle?”

  “Incredible. He and Cissy were orphaned, and he managed to raise her and himself. Then he won an academic scholarship to the University of Virginia, went into the military
, and distinguished himself in Vietnam. Came back to Monroeville and made money in all sorts of little businesses and the stock market, then got involved in local politics.”

  “He was mayor when his wife was murdered?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s the story there?”

  She cracked more legs. “She was stabbed by the pool man after she fired him.”

  “Bracken?”

  “Yes.”

  “In her house?”

  “No.”

  He looked up.

  Regina shifted on her chair. “Lyla was found stabbed in her car at a place the locals call Lovers’ Lane.”

  “A make-out spot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She was doing the pool guy and he stabbed her?”

  “That was the general theory, I believe.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  Act naturally. “It happened in the woods, in a remote location.”

  “Who found her body?”

  “A couple of hunters, I believe.”

  “Did Bracken confess?”

  “No. But he was an ex-con, and he collected knives. He bought several from our shop even though it violated his parole. There was… fluid at the scene.”

  “Semen?”

  She nodded. “It matched Bracken’s blood type. Plus he had motive, and means.”

  “So he stabbed her with a knife?”

  She squirmed. “The murder weapon wasn’t found.”

  He chewed thoughtfully.

  She busied herself meticulously picking out a ribbon of white meat.

  “How old were you when it happened?”

  She pretended to think. “About fourteen, I suppose.”

  “Where is this Lovers’ Lane place?”

  “Near Armadillo Creek.”

  “Near your house?”

  She shrugged. “I guess so.”

  A teasing smile came over his face. “Ever been there?”

  Regina pointed her cracking tool. “That’s none of your business.”

  He smiled but turned thoughtful again so soon, she grew uneasy. After a drawn-out silence, he leaned forward until their faces were mere inches away. “I enjoy puzzles.”

  She remained silent, but she had a bad feeling about the direction of the conversation.

  “I enjoy linking little disjointed bits of information and putting it all together.” He took another drink from his beer. “Let me give you a scenario.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do—”

  “Humor me.”

  She knew the danger of overreacting, so she simply averted her eyes and kept her hands busy.

  “The scenario goes like this: A woman is surfing an on-line auction and notices an item that looks like the weapon used in her aunt’s murder. She thinks it’s a coincidence, so she e-mails the seller, and the item is immediately pulled from the auction. Very suspicious, especially when she realizes it coincides with the convicted man lobbying for a new trial.”

  The bite of crab went down hard. “Interesting story.”

  “Uh-huh. Especially when you take into account that the murder weapon wasn’t found. So in order for this woman to know what it looked like, she would have had to either witness the murder itself or come upon the scene shortly thereafter.”

  Heat suffused her face, but she tried to sound casual. “You have an active imagination.”

  “So my mother always said.” He popped another bite into his mouth and took his sweet time chewing it. “But the really confusing part is that knowing the girl, I would’ve bet that she’d gone straight to her parents, or to the police. So I can only conclude that she was with someone she shouldn’t have been with, or doing something she shouldn’t have been doing, and didn’t want to get into trouble herself.” He smiled. “How am I doing?”

  “I’m entertained.” Not to mention on edge.

  “I figure this girl thought she was off the hook because the bad guy was locked up. Only now she’s starting to have doubts. Maybe the small-town investigation took a few shortcuts to bag the most obvious guy and left a killer walking the streets—”

  “That’s enough,” she cut in, then wiped her mouth and tried to smile. “I mean, murder isn’t exactly dinner conversation, is it? I almost prefer you when you’re hitting on me.” She drained her beer.

  He studied her for a few seconds, then smiled to break the tension. “And that was my plan all along.”

  She pushed away her plate. “Whew, I’m stuffed.”

  “You barely ate.”

  “Excuse me; I’m going to the ladies’ room.” She pushed to her feet too abruptly for the alcohol she’d consumed, but he saved her chair and even stood up when she left the table, damn him. She hurried to the rest room and claimed a stall for pacing. So that’s why he’d tracked her down tonight—he’d chained together all the pieces behind her secret. How stupid of her to borrow his laptop and ask questions about the auction site. She’d known him for three lousy days, yet he’d managed to inject himself into the most vulnerable area of her life and psyche.

  The man was dangerous, on more than one level.

  She washed her hands and dabbed cool water on her neck, then tried to repair her French twist. Her reflection revealed the extent to which Mitchell and the beer had compromised her barriers—pink cheeks, bright eyes, glistening skin. She looked as if she’d already been tumbled. She inhaled and exhaled a few times, telling herself she didn’t have to own up to anything the man had said—it was purely conjecture on his part.

  At the same time, she acknowledged a smidgen of relief to have heard the words come out of someone else’s mouth instead of her own. And even if she didn’t acknowledge the truth of his words, the conversation itself had relieved a good amount of tension that she hadn’t even realized had built up over the past twenty years.

  She returned to the table, feeling much refreshed.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “I’m ready to go.”

  He looked surprised but he relented. He tossed a few bills on the table and walked—much to her annoyance—with his hand at her waist until they were at his big van. Night had fallen and the hot summer sky was filled with sparkling stars. Strains of the restaurant beach music carried on the air. In the distance, the top of a lighted Ferris wheel could be seen from the carnival set up in what she guessed was the high school parking lot. Because of her dress, he helped her climb into the passenger seat. It put them on eye level, and she saw that he wanted to kiss her. She wet her lips and waited, her heart pounding like a teenager’s. Ten seconds, fifteen. Then he stepped back and closed the door.

  Some of the happiest moments in life result from rash decisions. You should try it sometime.

  Let people live their lives, and get one for yourself.

  While he circled the front of the van, she calmly took off her glasses. He climbed in and closed his door, then did a double take. And before she could analyze the good sense of it, she leaned toward him and kissed him soundly. His initial surprise quickly faded into hungry compliance, and he gathered her closer. His mouth was warm and fragrant and flavorful. His touch was just gentle enough to show restraint, just firm enough to show enthusiasm. His hands slid down her back and pulled her onto his lap. She was a goner.

  A knock on the window startled them both. “Hey!” A man was at the next car with his big-eyed family. “Get a room, why don’t you?”

  They looked at each other and laughed. “Okay by you?” he asked so carefully that she couldn’t even pretend to resist. She nodded, and they were at the Russell Motel, Room Number 8, in record time. “It’s not fancy,” he said, turning on the light “But it’s clean and the bed is king-sized.”

  She blushed down to her knees, Sam was thrilled to see them and gave her his standard greeting.

  “In the bathroom with you, pal,” Mitchell said, and led him across the room. “I’m not sharing.”

  When Mitchell returned, he extinguished all but the minimum o
f lights and looked her up and down with serious brown eyes. “Regina Metcalf, you are one great-looking woman.”

  She didn’t know what to do with her hands. The synopsis of every sexual how-to manual she’d ever edited flashed before her eyes. DO this. DON’T do that. DO this twice—but only if he does that first.

  Her mind spun with an impossible array of tips and techniques and tactics to guarantee an unforgettable sexual encounter. Caress. Lave. Linger. Tuck, clench, moan—or was it clench, moan, tuck? Too late, she realized it didn’t matter—the Top Ten Types of Men to Avoid only wanted big breasts anyway. She folded her useless hands over her chest. In the face of impending inadequacy, she felt compelled to offer her own disclaimer. “M-Mitchell, I just want you to know, this isn’t the kind of thing I normally do.”

  “I know.” He lifted his T-shirt over his head.

  Gaping was not sexy, but she couldn’t help it. The man was… wow. Broad shoulders, smooth skin, indented muscle, smattering of dark hair that whorled into the waistband of his jeans. He extended his hand, and she went, acting on pure instinct. To hell with the how-to manuals.

  They kissed past the point of her patience, so she started losing clothes. He followed suit but never took his eyes from her. When they were both nude, he caught her by her hands and pulled her down on the bed with him. She was overwhelmed by his blatant want of her, and by her own urgency.

  But he slowed their frantic pace with a thorough exploration of her neck, breasts, and navel, then returned to her breasts unapologetically. She arched into his mouth, skimmed her hands over his shoulders, and drew his male scent into her lungs. The hardness against the inside of her thigh triggered a hum low in her stomach, a timeless calling that he answered by sliding his body higher. She unfolded beneath him, shamelessly female in that moment, and their bodies met to the tune of relieved murmurs. They clasped hands overhead, found a rhythm, and rocked with a fluid intensity that tested the limits of the bed. For the span of several long breaths they filled each other again and again. He kissed her feverishly and whispered in her ear, coaxing her to an explosive end of bright lights and involuntary shudders. Then his body was wracked with the spasms of his own release.

  She closed her eyes and absorbed the sensation of his relaxed body entwined with hers, reveling in the immediate security of afterglow before the inevitable aftermath set in. As long as neither one of them moved, they could fake it a while longer. But they must have been more vocal than either one of them realized, because Sam’s insistent barking from the bathroom invaded their world.