“Tell me!” She’s turned on her side facing me, the blanket draped over her from shoulder to toes. Her eyes are wide and inquisitive. What does she want me to tell her? I review the last few minutes and try to remember what we’ve been talking about. I give up and raise an eyebrow in question.
“Murder on Mason Lane!” she replies while slapping her palm against the seat in a ‘how could you forget’ kind of way. Then she narrows her eyes skeptically. They’re so fucking pretty, her eyes. They’re green and she might have a coat of mascara on her lashes but nothing else. I’m sure she’d be stunning with all that shit girls put on their eyes, but she doesn’t need it. She’s naturally gorgeous, even when she’s staring at me with cynicism. “Did you work on that case or were you lying to get me on this plane?”
Ahh, the stupid case featured on Dateline that I promised to tell her more about. I can’t say a woman’s ever had any interest in using me for an inside scoop before—in anything to do with my job other than the handcuffs. The handcuffs are pretty popular, if I’m being honest.
So I give her all the details from the Mason Lane case, the details too boring to make it into a one-hour television episode. I talk until her pretty eyes droop and close, fatigue finally winning out over her quest for answers. I watch her sleep and, yes, it occurs to me that it might be a bit creepy but I don’t care. Her eyelashes rest against her perfect creamy skin. Her eyebrows are a delicate arch. Her hair—which I got a feel of last week when I kissed her—is lying across her cheek. It’s soft and glossy and I want more than a brush of it against my hand. I want to wrap it around my fist while I move inside of her. Or thread my fingers through it while her lips are wrapped around my cock. I want it fanning over my chest after I’ve made her come and she’s lying on top of me, relaxed and sated.
I reach over and brush it over her ear and she blinks at me, not really awake. She emits a small murmur and smiles, then closes her eyes again and nods off, her arm sliding from her seat to mine. I slip my hand in hers as I close my eyes and let sleep overtake me.
****
We touch down in the morning at the regional airport just outside of Vail. We’re outside the airport with our luggage in hand minutes after touching the ground. Flying private never gets old.
“Boyd! Holy wow. Have you seen this?” Chloe is spinning around, taking in the mountain views that hit you no matter which way you’re facing.
“I have,” I respond with a quick nod while opening the back of the SUV I arranged for our stay. I stow our bags in the back then slam the door closed and look at her. The Rocky Mountains surround us—the vista is stunning, no doubt. But it’s her I can’t take my eyes off of.
“You’ve been here before?” She stops gaping at the view to focus on me.
“I have.” I guide her to the passenger side of the SUV and open the door for her. “We’ll come back when there’s snow,” I say and she gives me an odd look, then stops short and squeals.
“You rented a Suburban!” she says, laughing.
“I thought it was the least I could do, since you’re doing me this favor and all.”
“True,” she agrees and then grabs the interior roof handle and hikes herself into the passenger seat. I resist from wrapping my hands around her waist to help. Barely. “Maybe this will motivate you to work your way up and get your own government-issued Suburban,” she jokes as she pulls the seatbelt across her body and snaps it into place.
“Cute.” I close her door and cross to the driver’s side. Within five minutes we’re on Highway 6 headed east towards Vail.
“I can see now why you had to bring a fake date this weekend,” Chloe mentions while rooting around in her bag and coming up with a pair of sunglasses that she slides on before tucking her knee up on the seat and turning towards me.
“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”
“The candy plane is obviously a huge turn-off,” she quips with a dramatic sigh.
“Obviously,” I agree.
“And this location is terrible.”
“Awful.”
“In fact, you probably owe me multiple favors now.”
“Just let me know,” I say, giving her a slow glance.
She looks away and the car is quiet for a few minutes. I think Chloe is thinking, or enjoying the view. It’s hard to tell. I take the next exit onto Grand Avenue, then a right onto Broadway and park in front of a small log cabin-inspired building.
“Are we here?” Chloe leans forward and looks out the window while unbuckling her seat belt.
“No, Vail is another thirty minutes. I thought we’d stop for breakfast.”
We grab a table inside and Chloe looks over the menu while I look over her. I’ve been here at least a dozen times. The Red Canyon Cafe is my favorite stop for breakfast if I have an early flight. The waitress fills our coffee while Chloe fidgets and reads the menu over again. Finally she speaks.
“Knock, knock.”
“Why are you nervous?” She only whips out the jokes when she’s nervous.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “This is weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“Um…” She wrinkles her nose and gestures between us with her hand. “This. Us traveling together. Being your fake girlfriend today. It’s all weird.” She dumps a packet of fake sweetener into her coffee and then fiddles with the empty wrapper, tearing it into tiny pieces before wadding them together into a snowball.
“You worry too much,” I note.
“You think?” she replies drily.
“So who’s at the door?”
She looks over to the restaurant door then back to me, a flicker of confusion crossing her face before she laughs. “We have to start over! Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Butter.”
“Butter who?”
“I butter tell you a few more knock-knock jokes!” Then she peals into a fit of laughter. I rest my elbow on the table and watch her. I love the way her eyes sparkle when she’s amused. “Oh, that reminds me, I just read this book where the guy used butter—” She stops short. “Never mind.” She waves her hand. “Want to hear another joke?”