“Me neither. Mrs. Cranston is a royal bitch, but she doesn't hit me as the type to get her hands dirty like this.”
She tried to picture the brittle, thin eighty-year-old Mrs. Cranston in a black ski mask spraying graffiti and tossing hamburger wrappers around Beth's grandparents' house. If the situation hadn't been so serious, the image would have made her laugh.
She'd known her neighbors for most of her life, ever since she'd gone to live with her grandparents. It didn't make sense that any of them would do this. She even worked with Mrs. Hunihan, who lived a few miles up the road, and hadn't noticed any difference in the way the executive secretary acted toward her. What motive would there be? Money, sure, but even as ticked off as some of them were, they weren't violent folks.
“That leaves the buyer.” His voice sounded stronger, he must have moved closer to the door.
Turning, she gazed at the closed door, picturing him on the other side in his jeans and lightweight gray dress shirt. Sitting next to him in the taxi on the way over here had been torture. She'd tried to stay on her side of the seat, but he'd felt no such compulsion and her skin sizzled from his nearness. Excitement bounced around her stomach at the memory and she laid her palm against the door to steady herself.
What was wrong with her? She had to distance herself from him before it was too late, but with who knows who after her, she wasn’t going to get rid of him anytime soon.
She slipped her black, knee-length dress from the hanger on the bathroom door, lowered the back zipper and stepped inside it.
“You haven't been able to get any more information about who it is?”
Raising the dress up, she slid her arms into the cap sleeves then cracked open the door, hoping to see him on the other side. No such luck. “Nope, all roads lead to a farmer who has been dead for a decade.”
“Damn, what I'd give to have access to my computer right now.”
“You can't log in from mine?”
“No, we have a closed system that only allows certain IP addresses access.”
Beth wriggled inside the dress, one arm stretched behind her back, trying to reach the zipper. Her fingers brushed the metal zipper pull, but couldn't grasp it enough to yank it up. Hunching over, she inched the fabric higher until she reached the zipper. She grunted and jerked it upward until it snagged on something and wouldn't go any higher.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Tugging it harder was an exercise in futility, but she tried anyway. Her shoulder ached from the awkward position and her glasses had slipped down her nose so far they were in danger of dropping off and smashing to the floor. Having to show up late to the conference with her only pair of glasses held together by a piece of tape was the last thing her career needed right now. Admitting defeat, she stood and adjusted her glasses. The world came back into focus with Hank standing in the now completely open bathroom door.
“Need help?”
A childish part of her wanted to say no, but who was she trying to fool? She needed Hank for more than just the zipper. “Yes, thank you.”
Beth turned her back to give him access to the trouble spot. Goose bumps prickled her skin when his hands touched the small of her back, his thumb resting against the curve of her ass. Unable to stop herself, she shivered.
He didn't say a word.
She couldn't, even if she were able to form a single thought at the moment.
Instead, she closed her eyes when he tried to pull the stubborn zipper higher, only to have the smooth material of her dress slide up her bare thighs.
He cleared his throat. “Um…looks like I…uh…need to pull it down first.”
She peeked at his reflection in the mirror. He concentrated on the zipper as if the fate of the world were at stake. His hands shook as he lowered the zipper to the middle of her back and hesitated, staring at the expanse of skin on display, before sliding it ever so slowly upward. When he reached the top, he took a step back, flexing his hand as if it had been stung. His gaze met hers in the mirror and neither moved.
Possibilities hung heavy in the electrified air, constricting her chest and scaring her down to her hot-pink toenails. Hank looked at her as if she could be the best thing to ever happen to him. Like she was perfect. Like he loved her.
“Beth.” He whispered her name, his tone a combination of plea and promise.
Staring at the reflection of his hazel eyes in the mirror and seeing the hope they held sent reality crashing down on her.
Amanda had twisted him into knots promising they'd start a family, after they bought the boat or the house or the dream vacation. But she'd always changed her mind. He'd confessed to Claire that not having a f
amily wasn't the only reason for the divorce, but it was a big one.
She loved him too much to put him through that again.
The realization hit her like a slap to the face. How she'd called love lust for so long, she had no idea. She loved him. Always had. Her throat tightened with regret for all the things lost before they were realized.