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Dex looks back at the photos, still frowning like he’s searching for answers.
I lean against him, wishing I could smooth away that expression and knowing it’s hypocritical when I’m hiding my pain from him.
“Traveling always had my best memories, growing up,” he says slowly. “For all of us, I think. You go away and leave all your worries at home. You go to Hawaii, Sicily, the Maldives, and suddenly you’re thousands of miles away from any bullshit. Arguments, flunking tests, petty kid shit at school, whatever. In the right place, you’re free, and it’s even more important when you’re an adult.” His frown deepens. “Plus, if you’re lucky, you get to make memories with the people who matter most.”
Family.
A slow, bittersweet smile crinkles my face.
That’s what matters most to him, even if he doesn’t come out and say it.
My eyes sting.
“Thank you,” I whisper, blinking back the tears—because crying now over this is the last thing we need. “Thanks for being honest.”
“You shouldn’t have to thank me for that, Sweet Stuff.” He tips my chin up and meets my gaze. “I’m always honest with you,” he whispers raggedly.
Then he kisses me deeply and doesn’t stop.
Catness head-butts my ankles, purring as we kiss like we’ve lost our minds in his library.
The evening sunlight spins across the ceiling, and I wonder if there’s a chance he could ever trade his workaholic life for another.
Could he ever trade helping other people make memories with making his own? With making memories we share?
Dangerous thoughts.
If I let myself start believing there’s anus, I’m setting myself up for a nice killing trip to heartbreak city.
His arms tighten around me, and I let myself drift away on a dream where this sweet insanity doesn’t have an end date.
And when I let myself daydream, his kiss tastes ten times sweeter, and I fall a little more hopelessly into the imaginary blue promises in his eyes.
18
SWEET HELL (DEXTER)
The ritzy clubhouse is about as extravagant as I’d expect from Forrest Haute, complete with a mahogany bar and huge windows overlooking the golf course.
He’s had Liberty Trails in his portfolio of properties for about twenty years, and it’s the gem of his Missouri holdings.
The place breathes pure luxury, beckoning like a lighthouse to the best of the best. Word is there’s even a building or two here designed by Beatrice Nightingale Brandt, the world-famous architect, back in her heyday.
There’s no denying it’s an impressive property.
If anyone else owned it, I might even like it.
Since it’s Haute, I can only feel his smarminess and arrogance radiating from every surface and heavenly green acre of manicured lawn.
Not that he’s looking particularly smarmy or manicured himself today.
He’s gone for casual, dressed in a polo shirt slightly open at the neck. His greying hair is slicked back in a way that makes him look approachable.
And on his arm, his wife, Clara Haute. Her hair is a peroxide blonde and it’s clear she’s defying age with the help of a scalpel.
Next to Junie, she looks like she could be visiting from another planet.
I’ve spent weeks worrying about what happens if Haute doesn’t buy this ruse.
