Savage Love (Savage Trilogy 3)
“A little more than twenty-four hours from now we’ll be on a plane,” he says, leaving the topic of my father alone and I wonder how much he really deep down blames my father for all of this. “It’s two-fifteen,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Head out now. I’ll be inside when you get there.”
“Isn’t my house being watched? How are you going to get in and not be seen?”
“I have the Midas touch baby.” He wiggles a brow. “This is what I do.”
I can’t argue with that answer. “Won’t they know my car left early?”
“I called Adrian after you left the dining room. He made it look like you arrived in an Uber and then left again. He also made sure your car wasn’t followed to the hotel. He will also have men following you to the store and your house.”
“Who?”
He motions to a white pickup truck. “That’s one of the men working under Adrian.”
Again, I don’t ask many questions. “How very Texan of him to drive a pickup.”
“Gotta blend in, baby.”
“Still doubt Adrian?”
“Hell yes. You don’t win me over with Skittles. It takes Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. So far he’s given me Skittles.”
“I’ll get some peanut butter cups at the store. Obviously, they’re on your mind.”
He grins and kisses me. “You know me so well.” He turns me to the car and leans in close. “I love you, Candace. You’re not alone. And you won’t be. Ever again. You and me, and ice cream in front of the TV, for the rest of our lives.”
My heart squeezes with a reference to our past, and I climb into the car. Rick shuts me inside and I start the engine. Memories of his nights off at the hospital spent watching a movie while eating pints of ice cream are surreal. We’re so close to those little shared moments again, to sharing a life together again. And yet, the years that separate us feel like nothing compared to the next twenty-four hours.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Candace
The best way to get through the next twenty-four hours is planning because planning means control. And I can’t dive back into planning until I get this afternoon of Gabriel’s design behind me. That starts at the grocery store, and while logically I know no one is following me—Rick’s team made sure of that—I’m not so sure. Once I’m in the grocery store, this sense of being watched has me glancing around nervously, and grabbing way too many cans of chicken noodle soup, crackers, and soda. And ice cream. I can’t forget the ice cream and why would I? Everyone knows sick people need ice cream. I buy Rick and me each two pints. I can’t eat two pints but considering this day, I might try. Maybe that’s the way to play sick. Eat ice cream, lots and lots of ice cream.
When I’m finally outside again, my skin tingles and the hair on my nape stands on end. I hurry into my car, lock the door, and store my bags in the seat next to me. I don’t think anyone could know that I’m here. This is me being paranoid but if they do, then they know I was at the hotel. More than a little eager to get home to Rick, I start the engine but I can’t remember if Rick is getting takeout or if I am. I also don’t want to call him and distract him when he’s sneaking around however he’s sneaking around.
Chick-fil-A is close, so I just hit the drive-thru and a few minutes later I’m armed with a bag of four spicy chicken sandwiches for Rick and one for me, as well as fries. And as soon as I realize it’s almost three, and the stylist will arrive soon, I stuff my face with those fries only to have her text me to tell me she’ll be late. Small miracles do exist.
I pull into my garage and the minute the garage door is down and I’m outside my car, Rick is walking toward me. That big hunk of a man is a sight for sore eyes and just seeing him again has me breathing a little easier. What is wrong with me? I’ve dealt with Gabriel for months under the duress of knowing he might hurt my father. I can do it a little longer.
“I grabbed the food, baby,” Rick says when he’s taken all the bags from me. “I wanted you to have time to eat.”
“I couldn’t remember who was grabbing the food. And the stylist will be late.”
He leans in and kisses me, and even without his hands free, it’s a crazy intense, wonderful kiss. “Come.” He smiles, intimacy crackling between us. “Let’s eat.”
“Yes. Let’s eat.”
A few minutes later, Rick and I have stashed the ice cream in the freezer, set my cans of soup on the counter, and are now standing in the kitchen at the counter, stuffing our faces with way too much food, way too fast. When I’ve had enough, and he’s three sandwiches in, I toss my trash in the bag. “I need to tell you something but I don’t want you to change your mind about the party.”