Chapter 21
In a complete reversal of how she’d felt when she’d gone to bed the night before, Dove woke up Thursday morning with a sense of hope.
She didn’t work at accessing it, it was just there as she slid into consciousness.
A positive anticipation of what was to come.
With opportunities for happiness on the horizon.
Surprised to hear the shower running, she turned her head to see that Mitchell was already up.
And when she made it downstairs, saw that he’d been there, too.
A fresh coffee pod was in the trash. Figuring he had an early appointment, she got herself ready in record time.
Pulling on the last clean outfit she had.
A long green flowing skirt, topped with a tie-dyed tank top in all the colors of the rainbow with lace along the collar, and rhinestone-studded pink flip-flops.
She was either going to have to go home for more clothes or do some laundry.
Not having any idea what she was getting into when she’d packed to leave her home, she’d thrown in a bunch of stuff and left the rest. At the time, she hadn’t been in a state of mind to plan.
She’d woken with a mind full of plans that morning, though.
Brad Fletcher had been put on notice. Hopefully that bought law enforcement enough time to find their missing pieces.
The man was sharp. But so was Peter Welding and his local team.
With the experts at the ABI involved, the shady businessman had met his match.
And her father…she asked Mitchell to stop in town so she could grab a six-pack of warm and gooey cinnamon rolls on the way to the hospital.
Her father’s favorites. The doctor had warned her to expect more anger than not over the next days, but Dove knew that feeling good was a winning adversary over rage, and those rolls always made Whaler smile.
She offered one to Mitchell, a thank-you for stopping, and he smiled, too. Meeting her gaze as he helped himself to a napkin from the box, he said, “You seem better today.”
In a knowing way. As though he had the secret behind her healed spirits.
Which, of course, he did. In part. The friend he’d been to her the night before…offering himself up as the source of good feeling, seemingly the only source in the world that would work for her right then, she was never going to forget.
“I am better,” she said. And then, once again, said, “Thank you.”
His response was a healthy bite into his roll, before heading back out into traffic. He’d dressed in jeans and a blue-checked flannel shirt that morning. “You’re not going into the office this morning?” she asked.
He shook his head. “They’re coming to work on Wicked Winnings, and Wes and Kirk are going to be involved with customers.”
For a second, her spirits dimmed. On his behalf. “You don’t have to give up your life for us, Mitchell,” she told him. “Your work has to come first.”
He nodded. “As it has a few times this week. Things are slow for me right now,” he added, finishing off his roll and licking his fingers. “Might even be fate, huh?” he asked, smiling over at her.
She knew he was teasing her. Making light of the incredible amount of time he was investing in a new client who hadn’t even yet signed a contract.
Her heart open wide and with an intensity she couldn’t stop, she said, “I will always be here for you, Mitchell. No matter what or when.”
He glanced her way, nodded.
And pulled into the medical center parking lot.
That last look had been brief, but Dove felt it to her core.
It was like he’d just returned the vow. Silently.
But she’d heard loud and clear.
It was as she’d known.
They were soul mates.
“Damn, girl, are you ever going to get it in your head that you aren’t the boss of me?”
Mitchell paused just outside the door of Whaler’s hospital room, just after nine on Thursday night, sharing a concerned glance with the officer outside his door—a young man he’d seen around town but never met.
“I’m just asking you to consider rehab, Dad. And to, maybe, talk to someone who’s been through what you have, you know, just talk to them.”
“You want me to go to one of those damned groups where everybody sits around and confesses and whines, and there ain’t no way…”
Silence fell, and Mitchell was about to go in when he heard “I’m telling you, young woman, if you don’t stop… you got no right, and I ain’t gonna put up with none of your fairy crap. I’ve had enough, you hear? Enough!”
Mitchell had to take a moment to calm his own anger, hearing Dove belittled that way. And by the one person in the world he was certain she loved. “Has it been like this all day?” he shared another glance with the uniformed officer, who nodded.
“She just keeps talking calmly,” the man said, “cheerful and upbeat. I don’t know how she does it.”
Mitchell had nothing to say to that but thought of the police officer’s words again a little over an hour later as he readied for bed.
Dove had chattered all the way home about how much stronger and more alert her father had been that day.
He’d eaten three meals, had been awake for several hours, his scans and blood work had come back better than expected, and the doctor had said that as long as he made it through the night with no trouble he could be released as soon as the next afternoon.
There’d been no further developments in their case.
Mitchell had spoken to both Peter and Eli several times that day.
Both of them were concerned about Whaler being on his own, prey to whoever had tried to kill him but hadn’t finished the job.
The man was not only refusing Dove’s urgings to enter an abstinence-based program but even to go to rehab for a few days while he got more of his strength back.
She hadn’t discussed any of that with Mitchell. Nor had she asked if he’d spoken to anyone. He knew she’d been getting reports, though. Peter Welding had told him that much.
He’d also heard that she’d been submissive, almost to the point of paranoid where her own safety guidelines were concerned.
With good reason. They weren’t up against any deadbeat or deranged criminal here.
They were dealing with a powerful, moneyed man who had connections.
And above-average intelligence. At Peter’s invitation, he’d watched the interview with Brad Fletcher from the day before.
The man had been properly contrite at appropriate times—like when he’d been shocked to find out that Bob St. James had security cameras—but mostly he’d appeared cocky, sure of himself and not the least bit concerned.
Mitchell’s takeaway had been that in Fletcher’s mind, it wasn’t a matter of if he’d get St. James Boats but when.
Glad that he had Dove safely with him one more night—knowing that he had to come up with some kind of plan in the event of Whaler’s release the next day, like moving the older man in with him, too—he donned his pajama pants, leaving off the shirt, and headed into his room.
Wondering if Dove would be wearing the same lightweight pants to sleep in that she’d had on every other night in his bed. She’d asked him to stop by her place on the way home that night so she could pick up a few more things.
While he’d only seen the satchel she’d carried out of her room, he’d found himself entertaining thoughts about its potential contents. Mostly pertaining to sexy sleepwear.
The sun had set, dusk had come and gone, leaving the room in darkness broken only by the beam of moonlight coming through the window. One last check that his gun was in place as he’d left it moments before, he checked his phone and climbed into bed.
He wasn’t going to reach for her. The call was hers. But he knew it was coming. She hadn’t sent any sex signals. There’d been no come-on or tantalizing looks. They weren’t Dove’s way.
Nor his, either, he realized. He got the looks often enough from women who made it clear they were open to his attentions. And found them to be turnoffs.
Wide awake, anticipating, he lay there…for all of twenty seconds. He felt the mattress move. Waited for her touch on his already hard penis—eagerly—and felt her naked leg slide over his silk-clothed one instead.
Dove was the aggressor during that first encounter.
Full of confidence that took him to a whole new level of hard with desire, she stripped his pants and played with him, sitting astride him, completely naked.
Her exploration took them places he’d never visited.
And the culmination was out-of-this-world incredible.
The second time was his turn. He didn’t stop until she was writhing, begging and then crying out for release.
After they’d shared a third orgasm, he lay back, replete. For the moment. Heard her sigh, flat on her back next to him, and expected her to turn her face to the wall and go to sleep.
Wondering if he’d get a goodnight kiss as he had the night before.
Wanting it almost as much as he’d wanted the sex.
Neither happened. She didn’t kiss him. Neither did she roll away.
Then he heard “We need to talk” come softly from beside him.
And Mitchell’s heart sank.
The future was at hand. Her father was going to be released from the hospital.
She’d need to stay with him; that was a given.
And, until the situation was resolved with St. James Boats, which somehow meant getting Brad Fletcher permanently away from them, they were going to need some kind of protection.
All of which Mitchell would be sure to have suggestions to deal with, she was sure. And things they could talk about in the morning. Or afternoon. With Whaler present. Or not.
She had something more pressing on her mind. An important something that could help sustain her—and please him—during some potentially challenging days ahead.
“I don’t want to be done with our sex, yet.”